-FHE  STORY- 
OFCOLETTE 


^^ 

^m 

mm 

^9H 

^^H 

^S^ 

^B 

^RS 

THE-AUTHOR-OF 
SFRAIGHTON      MB 


/J 


She  hat]  to  mount  on  a  table. 


(Page  132.) 


THE 


STORY   OF   COLETTE 


FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF 

LA   NEUVAINE   DE   COLETTE 


■:. 

'^^K^k 

k\ 

m% 

■^ 

itTr    ^ 

^/^ 

-■■  s^ 

IVITH  SIX  FULL-PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS   AND    THIRTY   VIGNETTES 
BY  JEAN  CLAUDE 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLET  ON     AND     COMPANY 

1892 


Copyright,  1888,  1891, 
By  D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


All  ricrJits  reserved. 


s'&y^^''-^ 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


baby 


She  had  to  mount  on  a  table     ..... 

What  occupation  shall  I  find  for  myself  to-morrow? 

My  portrait  is  easy  to  sketch     .... 

"  And  if  I  have  a  vocation  for  a  religious  life?  " 

I  am  seated  with  my  parchments  before  me 

As  an  infant  in  long  clothes  she  resembled  no  other 

My  three  sofas,  for  example,  are  all  alike 

I  threw  my  arms  about  her 

My  donkey  perceives  with  great  intelligence 

It  is  he  who  has  given  me  my  book  . 

My  dog  had  joined  me       .... 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "your  case  is  not  very  seriou: 

The  altar  I  have  made  for  my  saint  is  superb  . 

I  was  taking  off  the  smallest  particles  of  dust 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  cried  to  me,  throwing  up  her 

"In  1885,  sir" 

The  doctor  bowed  his  head  without  answering 

Benoite,  who  has  been  arranging  his  room 

At  distant  intervals  a  band  of  ravens  swoops  down 

F'inally,  I  strained  a  cupful  for  iiim  through  a  scjuare  of  muslin 

Do  you  see  that  image  of  St.  Joseph?        .         .         .         .         . 


PAGB 

Frontispiece 

5 
10 

14 

18 
20 
27 
33 

Faciiig^     36 


40 
46 

Facing     4° 
Facing     5  ^ 

•  53 
.     60 

Facing     07 

•  70 

•  74 
.  79 
.     86 

•  95 


ivi*^8tBi39 


4  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PACE 


But  the  flow  had  begun,  and  had  to  have  its  course         ....  loi 

A  study  from  Nature       ..........  107 

Its  grandeur  dates  from  Louis  XIII  and  its  downfall  from  the  Revo-  no 
lution        ............ 

The  portrait     ............  125 

"  Why  are  you  all  the  time  squabbling  with  your  gentleman  ?  "      .         .  134 

Hymen •   .         .  140 

To  begin  with,  Jacques,  be  shocked  if  you  like 146 

Then,  without  waiting,  she  attacked  the  fabulous  bread  .         .         .153 

"As  for  you,  mademoiselle,"  he  added,  looking  at  the  old  maid     .         .  159 

With  my  little  dagger  I  cut  the  name  which  occupies  my  thoughts  165 

With  Mademoiselle  Colette  as  a  guide 171 

He  went  on  and  on,  raising  his  eyes  to  me  every  moment      .        Facing  177 
I  held  out>my  hand,  unable  to  speak       .          .         .         .         ,         .          .182 

The  writing  of  M.  de  Civreuse  covered  two  sides   .....  190 

The  end  .............  195 


THE    STORY    OF    COLETTE, 


March  i,  iS—. 

"  Keep  mo,  O  Lord,  from  dying  of  despair  and  oinui, 
and  do  not  forget  me,  buried  in  tliis  snow,  which  deep- 
ens every  day." 

I  have  so  often  said  this  little  prayer  that  now  my 
patience  is  exhausted,  and  I  write  it.  Written  words 
have  so  much  more  force,  it  seems  to  me ;  thev  last 
longer. 

Also,  because  as  a  spoken  phrase,  which   reverber- 
ates against  the  high  sculptured  ceilings  of  my  rooms, 
takes    more    time    than    to    think    tiie 
words,  so  writing  takes  the  most  time 
of  all,  and  1  will  write.     This  for  to- 
day.   Alas  !  what  occupation  shall 
I  find  for  mvself  to-morrow? 

My    materials     are     scarcely 
sufficient,    certainly  not   elegant. 
My   journal  has  no  back,  the  ink 
is  dried   \\\)  in  the  bottom  of  an  old 
bottle  which   I  have  discovered,  my  pens  are  lost,  and 
I  have  never  had  a  sheet  of  paper  here.     Win'  siiould 
I  have  paper  when  1  write  to  no  one  ? 

To  reach  the  village  is  impossible.     There  arc  three 


6  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

feet  of  snow  on  a  level,  without  speaking  of  the  drifts, 
which  are  high  enough  to  bury  the  stage-coach  to  the 
top  of  the  wheel. 

I  have  read  how  prisoners  have  written  with  their 
own  blood  on  pocket-handkerchiefs.  1  do  not  believe 
it,  for  the  writing  blots,  and  one  can  not  read  it.  I 
know,  for  I  have  tried. 

But  I  have  mixed  my  dried  ink  with  water ;  I  have 
borrowed  two  long  quills  from  the  tail  of  a  goose,  who 
bore  the  loss  with  patience ;  and,  by  searching  in  clos- 
ets, I  have  found  some  old  rolls  of  parchment,  as  yellow 
as  saffron  and  as  thick  as  cardboard,  which,  fortunately, 
were  written  only  on  one  side — the  other  was  left  for 
me.  I  have  the  advantage  of  reading  as  I  write.  They 
relate  to  the  quarrels  and  lawsuits  between  a  certain 
sire,  John  Nicolas,  and  a  lady  of  Haute- Pignon,  whose 
rabbits  ravaged  his  clover-fields,  and  the  limits  of  whose 
fields  were  always  in  dispute. 

Give  me.  High  Powers,  as  neighbor,  a  John  Nicolas 
disposed  to  quarrel,  and  a  domain  whose  borders  may 
be  always  in  dispute. 

Are  there  many  people,  I  wonder,  who  realize  the 
entire  meaning  of  the  word  "  solitude  "  ? 

"Solitude,"  says  the  dictionary,  "state  of  a  person 
who  is  solitary  "  ;  and,  again,  "  solitary,  without  com- 
pany, not  with  others." 

And  that  is  all,  no  commentaries,  no  remarks,  noth- 
ing which  indicates  that  these  words  relate  to  one  of 
the  most  terrible  afflictions  of  existence,  nothing  which 
classifies,   which  says  —  there  is  solitude  and  solitude, 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  <r 

and  that  the  most  terrible  is  not  that  of  tlie  Chartreux 
in  their  cells  five  feet  square,  who  have  themselves 
chosen  these  dimensions  and  their  silence;  not  even 
that  of  the  Trappist  monks,  who  i\\g  their  <;raves  in 
their  little  gardens,  as  the  years  go  on  exchanging  with 
each  other  encouraging  words ;  but  mine,  that  of  Co- 
lette d'Erlange,  who  did  not  choose  her  lot  in  life,  and 
who  is  ready  to  rebel  against  her  fate. 

Alone  at  eighteen,  full  of  ideas,  with  no  earth! v 
being  to  tell  them  to  ;  to  be  gay  alone,  to  be  sad  alone, 
to  be  angry  alone — it  is  insupportable. 

It  was  less  trying  in  summer,  and  even  in  autumn — 
trees  and  flowers  understand  much  more  than  most 
people  think.  In  the  woods,  in  a  nest  of  soft  green 
moss,  I  had  hundreds  of  voices  which  talked  with  me. 
The  insects  which  crept  over  my  cheek  made  me  laugh 
by  myself.  Sometimes  I  rode  on  old  Fran^oise,  the 
mare  who  turns  the  miU-wheel,  and  when  she  could  go 
no  farther  I  mounted  on  my  big  dog  to  finish  my  ride — 
my  good  "One,"  in  whose  shaggy  coat  1  place  my  feet 
as  I  write,  and  who  looks  lovingly  at  me.  Finally, 
there  were  the  stars  at  night.  I  made  confidants  of  all 
that  look  on  our  little  corner  of  the  earth,  and,  when  1 
told  them  my  vexations,  more  than  one  made  me  a 
sign  of  sympathy,  which  seemed  to  me  like  the  look  of 
a  friendly  eye. 

But  this  wind  which  has  been  blowing  for  six  weeks, 
this  blockade,  and  the  voice  of  my  aunt,  which  is  like 
the  wind,  more  disagreeable  every  day,  combine  to 
drive  me  nearly  to  dcsj)air. 


8  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

No  imagination  can  resist  it  all.  I  have  come  to 
the  end  of  all  the  romances  I  invent  for  myself ;  I  am 
afraid  that  my  brain  is  empty,  and  that,  when  I  need  its 
aid  in  some  extraordinary  adventure,  I  shall  call  in 
vain. 

For  I  shall  have  my  adventure  some  da)' — I  can 
foretell  it  already. 

He  is  tall,  dark,  with  black  hair,  straight  eyebrows, 
and  severe  eyes.  His  appearance  is  gloomy,  his  voice 
is  imperious,  and  in  his  glance  there  is  a  singular  look — 
Oriental  for  its  softness,  but  Oriental  also  in  the  sleepy 
blue  light  as  of  a  cimeter,  or  like  the  recollection  of  a 
terrible  past ;  for  my  adventure,  to  reach  me,  will  have 
traveled,  perhaps,  by  strange  routes. 

His  mustache  will  be  small,  a  simple  line  of  black 
pointed  at  the  ends ;  and  all  this  will  be  radiant  for  me 
alone  with  smiles  and  an  unlooked-for  grace. 

Will  my  adventure  come  to  me  in  the  fields,  in  the 
brightness  of  the  morning,  or  the  quiet  of  the  evening? 
Will  it  come  quietly  or  in  the  midst  of  confusion?  I 
do  not  know — I  only  know  that  it  will  come. 

It  seemed  to  me  more  probable,  and  certainlv  nicer, 
to  find  it  in  the  days  of  May  or  June.  In  those  months 
I  never  passed  near  a  hedge  without  looking  to  see  what 
it  concealed  ;  but  I  hope  even  now,  and  ever}-  morning, 
when  I  open  my  curtain,  I  look  carefully  to  see  if  its  feet 
have  not  left  their  traces  on  the  snow  under  my  window. 

When  I  see  that  nothing  has  come,  I  make  excuses 
for  it  to  myself — the  weather  is  so  bad,  the  paths  so  hard 
to  find  !     I  wish  it  to  arrive  with  its  arms  and  leers  unin- 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  q 

jured  ;  I  even  praise  it  for  not  risking-  a  sprain  by  com- 
ing a  day  too  soon;  and  I  settle  myself,  sighing,  to  wait 
for  a  to-morrow,  which  has  not  yet  dawned. 

Then,  if  my  faith  in  the  future  becomes  too  weak,  I 
take  down  one  of  the  huge  volumes  whicii  fill  the  book- 
cases, which  have  consoled  me  during  rainy  days,  and  I 
re-read  the  histories  of  the  different  but  always  marvel- 
ous princesses  in  past  times,  who  were  shut  up  in  ruined 
towers,  but  managed  to  escape.  The  analogy  between 
their  lots  and  mine  is  really  striking,  and  I  onl}'  ask  that 
mine  may  have  the  same  conclusion. 

If  the  tower  that  I  inhabit  is  not  in  ruins — two  of  the 
others  have  fallen — it  may  go  any  day.  In  the  wood- 
work of  my  room  there  is  a  door  which  gives  access  to 
a  secret  staircase,  and  I  have  two  eyes  wide  open  and 
brilliant  and  as  fit  to  recompense  a  hero  as  any  that  ever 
shone. 

I  say  this  without  vanity  or  conceit,  for  1  have  never 
appreciated  the  modesty  that  exclaims:  What  a  beauti- 
ful horse  !  what  a  wonderful  rose  !  but  which  severely 
forbids  the  same  remark  about  a  face  which  one  has  cer- 
tainly not  made  one's  self — simply  because  it  is  one's 
own. 

It  is  allowable,  and  even  considered  to  be  in  good 
taste,  for  a  person  to  abuse  his  nose,  or  to  declare  that 
his  eyes  are  crooked  ;  but  to  say  that  the  Creator  has 
made  them  straight,  the  thought  is  horrible  I  That  is 
something  of  which  every  one  should  be  profoundly 
igfnorant,  as  if  the  smallest  mirror  or  the  first  brook 
would  not  reveal  it  without  the  help  of  any  one. 


lO 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


One  leans  over — one  looks,  and  sees  a  beauty.  Is  it 
a  crime,  and  would  it  be  better  to  disturb  the  water  so 
as  to  see  wrinkles  ?  The  stags  and  the  does  did  so  this 
summer  when  they  came  to  drink,  while  I  was  dream- 
ing close  bv.  When  they  had  finished,  they  remained 
quite  still  for  a  moment,  with  their  heads  bent  down, 
and  their  soft  eyes  fixed  on  their  image  ;  then  they 
turned  and  bounded  off,  simply  happy  to  know  that 
their  brown  coats  were  so  shining,  and  their  antlers  so 
well  branched.  After  the  does,  I  looked,  and  saw  all 
that  they  had  seen,  on  the  same  blue  background,  flecked 
by  the  same  light  clouds,  and  when  I  turned,  as  they 
did,  with  a  bound,  it  was  no  more  disagreeable  to  me 
than  to  them  to  remember  my  shining  skin. 

My  portrait  is  easy  to  sketch,  and  resembles  that  of 
the  gypsies  all  over  the  world,  for  my 
eyes  are  black,  and  my  cheeks 
freckled,  but  I  know  the  skin  is 
white  underneath.  My  nose  is 
short,  and  seems  to  me  to  have 
been  in  such  a  hurry  to  see  the 
world  that  it  would  not  wait  to 
be  finished ;  there  was,  alas !  no 
hurry  at  the  rate  my  life  runs  ;  and 
my  mouth  is  like  all  mouths — which 
are  not  too  ugly.  My  only  great  regret  is  about  the 
color  of  my  hair,  which  is  such  a  reddish  blonde  that 
it  is  more  red  than  yellow,  with  locks  which  are  lighter 
or  darker,  like  a  peasant-woman's  striped  skirt.  If  my 
aunt  is  to    be    believed,   I   shall  never  be  tall,  and  she 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  \\ 

has  a  way  of  murmuring,  when  I  am  near  enough  to 
hear,  "  Little  woman,"  which  brings  me  clown  to  the 
level  of  the  ground.  The  truth  is  that  1  come  up  to 
her  elbow,  but,  as  1  know  no  man  in  the  vicinity  who 
reaches  above  her  shoulder,  the  proportion  does  not 
seem  to  me  very  bad.  And  being  such,  and  thinking 
thus,  I  am  waiting  in  my  ice-covered  tower,  whose  feet 
are  in  the  snow,  for  my  liberator  and  my  hero ! 

March  2d. 

A  thing  of  which  I  have  often  thought,  but  about 
which  I  have  never  dared  to  ask  my  aunt,  is  the  nature 
of  our  relations  to  each  other.  Is  she  in  my  house,  or 
am  I  in  hers?  Has  she  received  me  in  her  castle,  or 
have  I  sheltered  her  in  my  ruin  ?  And  do  the  two 
towers  and  four  walls  which  are  still  standing,  with 
strength  to  bear  their  name  of  "  Erlange  de  Fond-de- 
Vieux,"  belong  to  Mademoiselle  d'Epine  or  to  Made- 
moiselle d'Erlange  ? 

As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  we  were  always  as 
we  are  now  :  she  as  cold,  as  tall,  as  dry,  always  shut  up 
in  the  largest  room  of  the  chateau,  on  the  sunnv  side 
and  protected  from  the  wind  ;  I  getting  on  as  I  could  in 
the  house  or  out  of  it,  in  the  cold  or  rain,  without  ap- 
parent notice  from  her.  With  us  are  Benoite,  who  is 
cook,  farmer,  butler,  and  gardener  all  in  one,  besides 
being  my  only  friend,  and  Fran^oise  at  the  mill-wheel, 
going  at  the  same  rate  —  though  perhaps  a  little 
faster. 

Later  came  my  two  years  in  the  convent,  those  two 


12  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

happy  years,  when  I  was  talked  to,  called  by  my  name, 
when  my  bed  was  one  of  twelve  little  white  beds  all 
alike,  under  whose  coverings  there  were  such  joyous 
whisperings,  and  during  which  I  learned  man}'  things, 
if  I  neglected  some  that  were  taught  in  the  class-rooms. 
My  convent,  where  I  formed  eternal  friendships,  where 
I  learned  to  dress  my  hair,  to  use  a  fan,  where  1  knew 
for  the  first  time  what  an  ideal  is,  and  how  for  a  man  to 
be  a  hero  he  must  necessarily  be  dark,  pale,  slightly 
middle-aged,  gloom}-,  and  sarcastic !  Who  will  bring 
back  those  happy  days  to  me? 

The  walls  were  high,  but  the  rumors  of  Paris  reached 
over  them,  and,  on  the  days  when  visitors  were  allowed, 
we  heard  echoes  of  the  world  without  which  made  our 
conversation  all  the  week.  Oh  !  those  mysterious  con- 
fidences among  the  trees  of  the  park,  which  protected 
us  like  the  most  impenetrable  jungle,  but  where  the 
noise  of  falling  leaves  frightened  us  and  made  us  run  for 
safety  ;  those  games  of  hide-and-seek  around  the  bases  of 
the  statues  to  hide  from  the  nuns,  whose  censure  was  so 
dreaded  but  whose  voices  were  so  gentle  ;  and  the  foolish 
notes  which  circulated  from  desk  to  desk  under  the  pre- 
tense of  geographical  information — where  shall  I  ever 
find  anvthing-  so  delightful?  The  Mediterranean  Sea 
signified  one  person,  the  Baltic  another,  and  we  made 
them  say  and  do  things  which  overturned  all  the  laws 
of  Nature. 

Besides  the  notes,  there  were  presents — knots  of  blue 
or  red  ribbon  ])inned  on  white  paper,  which  was  orna- 
mented with  devices  and  sentiments  which  were  the  ex- 


THE    STOA'Y   OF  COLETTE.  j^ 

pression  of  an  affection  or  a  tenderness  that  made  our 
hearts  beat. 

Then  came  the  day  when  my  aunt  sucUk-nlv  appeared, 
for  the  hrst  time  since  slie  took  mc  there,  and  brousrht 
me  home  without  a  word  of  warniner. 

Without  preface,  she  began  :  "  Your  education  is 
finished,  and,  as  you  have  not  been  able  to  establish 
yourself  in  these  two  years,  you  must  return  to  Er- 
lange."  Return  to  Erlang-e !  1  was  confounded.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  1  was  being  put  into  a  tomb  and  the 
cover  shut  down  while  I  was  still  alive.  "  But,  aunt," 
I  stammered,  "do  not  think  I  have  learned  anything; 
on  the  contrary,  spelling,  arithmetic,  history — "  I 
hesitated.  I  could  say  no  more.  I  would  have  been 
willing  not  to  know  how  to  read,  so  that  she  might 
leave  me  there  to  learn  the  b,  a,  ba,  of  my  speller.  But 
nothing  embarrassed  her.  She  interrupted  me  in  her 
usual  w^ay  : 

"  If  you  know  nothing,  my  dear,"  she  said,  drvlv, 
"you  have  wasted  vour  two  Acars,  and  I  could  not 
conscientiously  leave  you  here  another  hour  !  Besides, 
it  is  your  ow^n  fault,  and  you  have  added  to  your  posi- 
tion of  a  young  person  without  fortune  the  charm  of 
ignorance,  which  will  hardly  facilitate  your  way  in  life. 
But,  thank  God,  I  shall  not  have  it  on  my  conscience, 
for  I  have  given  you  the  chance  of  bettering  your 
position." 

She  rose  quickly,  but  with  a  decision  which  put  an 
end  to  the  discussion,  and  which  ])lunged  mc  in  such 
despair  that  I  cried  out  almost  without  knowing  it  : 


J4  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

"  And  if  I  have  a  vocation  for  a  religious  life  ?  " 
"  In  that  case,"  she  replied,  turning-  quickly  with  an 
enigmatical    smile,   "  I    should    leave    you    here."      She 

stopped  a  moment,  then,  mov- 
ing toward  the  door  with- 
out looking  at  me :  "  I  give 
you  twenty -four  hours  for 
reflection,"  she  added,  and 
disappeared,  like  a  bad 
dream. 

I  had  gained  twenty-four 
hours  !  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  peace  forever. 
The  coif  and  the  veil  of 
the  nuns  seemed  to  me 
almost  beautiful  when  I  thought 
of  them  as  a  means  of  snatching  me  from  exile ! 

Although  it  was  strictly  forbidden,  I  stole  to  the 
dormitory  at  the  first  spare  moment,  and,  with  two 
white  handkerchiefs  and  my  black  apron,  I  arranged  on 
my  head  the  coif  in  question. 

Undoubtedly  1  was  prettier  in  my  ordinary  dress, 
but  there  was  nothing  repulsive  in  my  appearance,  and 
the  white  band  above  my  eyebrows  and  eyes  made 
them,  I  think,  appear  longer  and  blacker.  That  was  the 
first  point,  certainly  the  most  important,  and  my  resolu- 
tion from  that  moment  was  irrevocably  taken.  During 
the  remainder  of  the  day  I  practiced  the  austerities 
which  belong  to  my  newly-chosen  profession.  Being 
sent  on  an  errand   to  the  infirmary,  which  was  at  the 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  15 

Other  end  of  the  park,  I  managed  without  being  seen  to 
go  and  return  barefooted.  I  experienced  no  harm  ex- 
cept some  insignificant  bruises ;  and,  more  and  more 
certain  of  my  vocation,  I  remember  that  I  passed  part 
of  the  night  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  my  bed,  pressing 
against  my  breast  a  bunch  of  keys,  a  pen-knife  (shut), 
and  an  ivory  paper-knife,  that  I  had  hung  around  my 
neck  as  a  penance,  the  points  entering  into  my  flesh  in 
a  disagreeable  manner. 

Twice,  when  the  sister  on  duty  passed,  I  jumped 
into  my  bed,  and  the  rattling  of  my  keys  attracted  her, 
and  made  her  bend  over  me  for  some  time  ;  but  she 
heard  such  a  steady,  tranquil  breathing,  and  saw  eyes 
so  tightly  closed,  that  she  thought  she  was  mistaken, 
and  passed  on. 

The  next  morning  all  was  excitement  in  the  con- 
vent. An  archbishop,  who  had  been  expected  some 
days  later  for  the  taking  the  veil  by  five  novices,  sud- 
denly arrived,  and  the  preparations  for  the  ceremony 
were  hastened. 

How  fortunate  !  I  said  to  myself,  while  struggling  to 
brush  out  the  curls  of  my  hair,  which  resisted  in  spile 
of  all  the  water  I  employed.  Heaven  itself  put  all 
these  tests  in  my  way,  and  this  evening  I  shall  be  ready 
to  answer  my  aunt  with  a  full  knowledge  of  all  that  is 
before  me.  I  had  no  chance  of  speaking  privately  to 
the  Mother  Superior  that  morning,  and  my  toilet  ex- 
periment caused  me  to  be  summarily  sent  back  to  the 
d(^rmitory.  "  You  are  disguised  as  a  drop  of  water — 
how  charming!  "  said  one  of  my  companions,  as  we  fell 


1 6  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

into  line,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  voice  of  Sister 
Agnes  was  heard,  but  much  less  pleasantly : 

"  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange,"  she  said  imperiously, 
"  have  you  dipped  your  head  in  the  fountain  ?  Go 
immediately  and  dry  your  hair  and  arrange  it  prop- 
erly." 

In  the  dormitory  I  could  judge  of  the  effect  of  my 
efforts.  My  hair  curled  tighter  than  ever,  and  the 
water  hung  in  drops  from  the  ends  of  the  curls,  and 
wherever  there  was  a  ridge.  The  effect  was  certainly 
not  ugly,  but  it  was  not  nun-like,  and  I  dried  as  well  as  I 
could  the  unseasonable  ornament  which  shone  like  dia- 
monds. 

My  exaltation  went  on  increasing  to  the  middle  of 
the  ceremony  :  the  flowers,  the  lights,  the  five  young 
girls  dressed  in  white,  whose  long  white-satin  trains 
swept  the  ground,  excited  my  fervor  until  I  was  impa- 
tient to  be  one  of  them. 

In  the  distance  I  saw  the  congregation,  and  among 
them  a  tall  young  man,  an  officer  in  uniform,  whose 
eyes  seemed  to  me  to  be  red. 

Was  he  a  lover  come  to  look  for  the  last  time 
on  her  he  had  loved?  A  rumor  of  this  kind  had 
reached  us,  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  height  of  ro- 
mance. 

But  when  the  five  open  coffins  were  brought,  and  the 
novices,  dressed  now  as  nuns  and  concealed  by  long 
black  veils,  were  placed  in  them  to  hear  the  burial  serv- 
ice, my  resolution  suddenly  gave  way.  I  took  out  my 
bunch  of  keys  from  my  bosom,  and  fled  without  listen- 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  17 

ing,  and  was  scolded  for  the  last  time  at  the  convent,  to 
pack  my  boxes  myself  in  all  haste. 

At  the  hour  fixed  I  was  in  the  parlor,  bag  in  hand, 
my  eyes  wet  with  tears  from  the  last  good-byes,  and 
laden  down  with  cards  and  pictures — tokens  of  affection 
— but  so  resolute  that  Erlange  appeared  to  me  in  a  halo 
of  glory,  and  I  walked  toward  the  door  as  my  aunt  en- 
tered. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  with  a  gesture  of  surprise,  "  what 
does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  I  am  ready  to  go,"  I  replied,  without  remarking  a 
shade  of  vexation  which  I  remembered  later. 

I  burst  into  tears  anew  in  embracing  the  Superior, 
and  with  my  eyes  obscured  by  weeping  I  passed  out  of 
the  door.  "  Eastern,"  said  my  aunt  as  we  entered  the 
carriage,  and  two  hours  after  we  were  traveling  rapidly 
by  rail,  in  a  silence  worthy  of  the  five  new  nuns  who 
had  unconsciously  driven  me  from  the  convent. 

At  the  station  where  we  got  out,  the  rumbling  old 
yellow  coach  which  ran  to  the  village  waited  for  us  ; 
my  aunt  pushed  me  toward  it  with  a  gesture,  and,  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  her  silence,  I  showed  her  by  a 
sign  that  I  preferred  to  sit  outside.  "  No,  no,"  she  re- 
plied in  a  dry  tone,  "  you  shall  not  leave  me  any  more." 
At  the  village  Frangoise  and  the  chaise  were  waiting 
for  us,  and  the  same  evening,  stunned  by  the  brusque 
change,  I  found  myself  once  more  between  the  four 
walls  of  my  room,  from  which  I  perceived  to  my  great 
astonishment  that  all  my  furniture  had  been  removed. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night,  my  candle  seemed  like 


1 8  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

a  funeral  taper,  my  footsteps  resounded  as  in  a  church, 
and,  realizing-  how  solitary  I  was,  I  did  the  only  reason- 
able thing  I  could  do,  and  sitting  on  the  floor,  my  two 
arms  around  my  valise,  I  wept  abundant  tears,  though 
it  had  seemed  to  me  in  the  morning  I  had  no  more  to 
shed.  When  this  was  done,  I  got  up  to  open  my  win- 
dow to  a  ray  of  moonlight  which  struck  on  the  glass, 
and  remarked  for  the  first  time  how  dark  and  deep  is 
the  valley  which  isolates  us  from  the  remainder  of  the 
country.  "  O  God  !  "  I  could  not  help  saying  aloud, 
"  who  will  come  to  deliver  me  ?  "  And  a  sweet  little 
voice,  which  I  still  hear  from  time  to  time,  whispered 
in  my  ear,  "  He  ;  be  patient!  "  And  since  then  I  look  for 
him  every  day,  I  make  excuses  for  him  every  morning, 
and  I  hope  for  him  unceasingly. 

March  jd. 
Certainly  writing  has  its  good  side,  and  I  am  fonder 
than  T  expected  to  be  of  John  Nicolas's  parchments. 
When   I  am  seated   with   them  before  me,  I  forget, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  tell- 
ing my  troubles  to  a  friendly  ear. 
I  fancy  that    I    have  a   deaf-mute 
before  me,  that  writing-implements 
are   necessary  to  our  intercourse, 
and  I    scribble  on !      When  I   am 
absent  from  him   I  think  of  all  the 
things  I   will  tell    him,  and,  when 
I  return  to  my  room  and   begin  to 
speak  to  him,  T  find  that  one  thing  leads  to  another — 
that  if   1  tell  him  this  I  must  tell   him   that,  or  he  will 


THE   SrOKY  OF  COLETTE.  jq 

never  understand  my  life.  Then  I  must  i^o  still  further 
back,  turn  pages,  water  my  bottle  of  ink,  and  the  sacri- 
ficial goose  must  surrender  more  feathers  if  this  weather 
lasts  much  longer  ! 

I  left  off  at  my  first  despair  and  the  words  with 
which  my  aunt  had  received  me  in  the  parlor — the 
words  that  particularly  struck  me.  "  Since  you  have 
not  found  means  to  establish  yourself  suitably  in  these 
two  years,"  she  had  said  to  me. 

Was  it  to  look  for  a  husband  that  she  sent  me  to 
the  convent,  and  did  she  fancy  that  the  nuns  in  their 
care  for  our  welfare  invited  young  men  of  good  fam- 
ily and  of  proper  age  to  see  us  on  Sundays  and  Thurs- 
days, who  would  talk  with  us  and  bring  us  back  our 
balls  and  shuttle-cocks  ? 

The  ingenuousness  would  have  been  great,  and  I 
could  scarcely  imagine  such  a  sentiment  emanating  from 
the  brain  of  such  a  woman,  but  it  was  worth  while  to 
try  to  find  out,  and  in  spite  of  the  length  of  time  it  had 
taken  me  to  understand  it,  in  spite  of  the  very  real  fear 
I  have  had  of  my  aunt  ever  since  I  was  a  baby,  I  de- 
cided about  two  months  ago  to  question  her  on  the 
subject. 

From  our  short  interview,  I  came  to  a  clearer  knowl- 
edge of  her  character  and  also  of  her  past  life,  of  which 
she  never  speaks,  having  apparently  no  pleasant  remem- 
brances of  it.  This  fortunate  glimpse  has  besides  given 
me  an  inkling  of  the  lot  which  she  designs  for  mc,  and 
which  she  arranges  in  such  a  manner  quite  contrary 
to  my  own  intentions.     I  do  not  trouble   myself  much 


20 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


about  this,  but  let  her  make  her  little  plans,  feeling  sure 
that  I  have  quite  strength  of  purpose  enough  to  refuse 
to  accept  her  projects,  if  it  should  be  necessary. 

Aurora-Raymonde-Edmee  d'Epine  has  never  had  the 
consciousness  of  having  been  anything  but  ugly  at  any 
period  of  her  existence.  It  is  in  vain  that  in  looking 
at  her  I  try  to  fancy  her  without  wrinkles,  mustache, 
freckles,  and  all  that  age  has  given  her — there  are  cer- 
tainly features  which  time  with  all  its  power  can  not 
change. 

Besides,  Benoite  is  a  witness,  and    certifies  to   her 
frightful  ugliness  from  the  cradle.     As  an  infant  in  long 
clothes,  she  resembled  no  other  baby. 
The  worst  is,  the  evil  was  not  only  ex- 
terior,  but   it  covered    a   temper   and 
disposition  that  accorded  with  it.     Did 
the  ugliness  come  from  the  bad   tem- 
per, or  the  bad  temper  from  the  ugli- 
ness?    Nobody  could  say  exactly.     It 
was  like  the  question  of  her  poor  di- 
gestion and  bad  teeth.     One  asks  one's 
self  in  seeing  her,  "  Which  has  spoiled 
the   other?"      It   is   certain    they   are 
equally  bad. 
Nevertheless,  these  are  excuses,  but  the  case  is  not 
always  so — sometimes    ugly  people  are   amiable.     The 
story  of  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast  "  proves  it,  and  Benoite 
says  that  the   contemporaries  of    my  aunt  were   more 
often    repulsed     by    the    disagreeable    words    she    ut- 
tered than  by  her  ugly  mouth.     Relatives,  friends,  and 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  21 

strangers  were  treated  alike,  and  I  can  believe  that  her 
name  Epine  gave  rise  to  many  jests.  F^rom  all  this,  it  is 
easy  to  understand  that  a  young  girl  with  so  many  de- 
fects had  not  an  agreeable  youth.  Every  one  instinct- 
ively avoided  her,  and  my  mother  had  been  married 
for  years  while  my  aunt  was  still  waiting  for  the  cour- 
ageous man  who  would  draw  her  from  her  celibacy. 
She  clung  to  this  hope  with  wonderful  tenacity — long 
after  another  would  have  resigned  herself;  and  the  sense 
of  an  intolerable  humiliation  and  anger  still  remains  the 
principal  sentiment  of  her  heart. 

Time  has  passed,  but  her  anger  and  hatred  remain, 
and  she  cultivates  her  grievance  with  a  care  she  gives  to 
nothing  else.  It  is  her  cat,  her  parrot,  her  dog,  the 
favorite  of  her  solitary  life  ;  and  I  should  see  no  harm  in 
her  occupation,  unpraiseworthy  as  it  is,  if  the  beast  she 
nourishes  had  not  teeth  and  claws,  and  did  not  use  them 
from  time  to  time. 

The  most  curious  part  of  it  all  is  that  her  resentment 
is  not  directed,  as  would  be  natural,  against  the  authors 
of  the  evil,  but  against  happier  women  who  have  pleased 
the  men  who  had  no  eyes  for  her,  and  even  against  those 
who  in  their  turn  may  one  dav  marrv.  Does  she  think 
that  in  all  sin  one  must  regard  the  cause  more  than  the 
effect  ?  Does  she  consider  the  rogue  who  steals  less 
wicked  than  the  apple  or  peach  which  tempts  him  by 
its  beauty  ?  (^r,  perhaps,  is  this  indulgence  the  last  sign 
of  a  weakness  and  partiality  which  have  been,  alas  I  but 
poorly  recompensed  ?  T  do  not  know,  for  I  have  only 
suffered  the  effects  of  this  odd  system  of  compensation. 


22  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

This  sentiment  of  my  aunt  is  so  powerful  that  it  ex- 
tends to  all  classes  and  all  ages. 

The  music  from  a  wedding  in  the  village,  if  it  reaches 
up  here,  drives  her  nearl}-  wild  ;  and,  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  she  goes  out,  if  chance  places  in  her  way  a 
couple  of  lovers,  or  a  bride  leaning  tenderly  on  her  hus- 
band's arm,  she  follows  them  with  a  terrible  look  which 
they  will  hardly  forget. 

In  fact,  what  she  would  like  would  be  that  her  lot 
and  her  unhappiness  should  be  the  lot  and  the  unhap- 
piness  of  all  the  world  ;  and  she  is  at  least  logical  in  it, 
for  she  has  tenderness  and  care  for  the  ugly,  the  un- 
happy, the  neglected — in  fact,  for  all  in  whom  her  selfish- 
ness sees  possible  companions  in  misfortune.  But  let 
one  of  her  protegees  marry,  and  the  charm  is  broken  ! 

Such  is  my  aunt,  and  such  are  the  causes  of  the 
singular  life  I  lead  with  her. 

What  catastrophe  threw  me  as  a  child  into  such  un- 
loving hands  I  only  half  understand,  but  I  believe  that 
grief  for  the  sudden  death  of  my  father  caused  the  death 
of  my  mother  shortly  after. 

My  Aunt  Aurora  (I  say  Aurora,  for,  by  a  bitter  irony, 
it  is  the  one  of  her  names  by  which  she  is  called)  was 
the  only  member  of  her  family  remaining,  and  the  care 
of  the  orphan  naturally  fell  to  her  ;  but,  owing  to  the 
manner  in  which  she  fulfilled  her  duty,  the  charge  was 
certainly  not  heavy  upon  her,  and  she  simply  ignored 
me  until  the  moment  when,  I  know  not  how,  she  woke 
to  the  fact  that  the  traditional  enemy,  in  my  person,  was 
in  her  home,  and  that,  by  a  natural  transformation,  the 


THE    STOKY  OF  COLETTE.  23 

child  would  one  day  become  a  woman.  If  this  was  not 
the  sole  reason  which  determined  our  sudden  departure 
for  Eriange,  it  was  something  of  the  same  sort,  for  I  was 
hardly  ten  years  old  when  she  suddenly  transplanted  me 
to  this  rustic  neighborhood — where  at  first  everything 
enchanted  me. 

Then  passed  the  uncertain  stage  of  my  childhood. 
Each  change  was  followed  by  my  aunt  with  an  atten- 
tion which  I  should  like  to  call  friendly,  but  I  fear  it  was 
rather  an  uneasy  curiosity  that  moved  her.  What  was 
to  develop  from  the  muddy  complexion,  dull  eyes,  and 
hands  and  feet  which  never  stopped  growing?  There 
was  still  doubt. 

Unfortunately,  I  continued  to  develop,  and  the  day 
that  I  finally  shook  off  my  shell,  my  aunt  took  me  at 
once  to  the  convent. 

My  poor  mother,  looking  forward  into  my  future, 
had  exacted  a  promise  from  her  sister  that  two  years  at 
least  of  my  life  as  a  young  girl  should  be  spent  in  Paris, 
and  this  was  the  ingenious  manner  of  executing  a  prom- 
ise to  the  dead  without  going  against  her  own  wishes. 
I  am  persuaded  that  nothing  would  have  made  her 
break  her  word,  but  she  kept  it  in  this  way  without  the 
slightest  scruple,  and  now  it  is  considered  that  I  have 
seen  all  that  there  is  to  be  seen  of  Paris  ! 

When  the  time  was  ended,  she  came  to  tear  me  from 
my  worldliness,  and  brought  back  to  Eriange  the  niece 
whom  no  one  wanted  to  marry,  and  who,  she  thanks 
Heaven,  will  perhaps  walk  in  her  footsteps  ! 

This    being  the   case,  one    may  judge  whether  my 


24  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

proposition  to  stay  in  the  convent  suited  her.  A  nun — 
it  was  the  best  solution,  one  which  would  not  in  any 
way  hurt  the  feelings  of  her  susceptible  self-love.  The 
veil  is  not  a  husband !  and  young  girl  and  nun  come 
next  each  other  when  one  tells  one's  fortune  with  a 
daisy  ;  besides,  any  young  girl  can  take  the  veil.  The 
convent  is  less  exacting  than  a  man,  and  does  not  de- 
mand beauty  of  face  in  the  person  Avho  is  buried  there  ; 
and  I  certainly  caused  more  emotion  in  the  breast  of 
my  aunt  during  those  twenty-four  hours  than  I  had  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  before  since  my  birth. 

But  in  the  interval  my  dream  of  a  vocation  had  van- 
ished, and  she  had  no  choice  but  to  keep  my  eighteen 
years  beside  her,  A  neighborhood  which  she  liked  so 
little  that  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  she  saw  in  her 
mind's  eye  the  coxcombs  of  her  youth,  and  thought  of 
the  jokes  these  wits  would  have  made  on  seeing  us  to- 
gether— the  bud  on  the  prickly  branch,  alas  !  long  past 
its  prime. 

If  these  are  not  exactly  the  words  she  used  in  speak- 
ing to  me,  for  few  people  expose  their  own  weaknesses 
so  completely,  the  sense  is  scrupulously  preserved  ;  and 
I  am  certain,  from  my  own  remembrances,  those  of 
Benoite,  and  what  my  aunt  said  herself,  that  I  have 
sketched  her  exact  character  in  the  past,  in  the  present, 
and  even,  alas  !  in  the  future. 

Since  that  time,  life  here  has  resumed  its  course,  or 
rather  its  stagnation,  and  my  aunt  considers  it  her  duty 
to  shower  words  regularly  on  me,  which  ring  like  hand- 
fuls  of  earth  on  a  coffin,  in  order  to  convince  me  that 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  25 

Colette  is  dead,  and  needs  nothing-  more  in  this  world 
than  a  Dc  Profuudis. 

And  I  let  her  e^o  on.  But  Vive  Dieu  !  as  the  most 
charming  of  our  kings  used  to  say.  Let  her  beware, 
for  I  am  not  dead  yet,  and  I  mean  to  prove  it  to  her 
some  day. 

March  4th. 

My  good  John  Nicolas,  it  snows  still,  and  still 
harder,  and  the  thermometer  has  gone  lower  down  ! 
I  wonder  if  it  says  truly,  or  whether,  in  taking  it  in 
from  the  window  this  morning  after  breakfast,  I  acci- 
dentally touched  the  shoulder  of  my  aunt  with  it  ?  I 
do  not  know,  but  I  am  thinking  of  burning  my  chairs 
so  as  to  make  a  bigger  fire  in  my  fire-place ! 

To  complete  my  misfortunes,  my  remembrances  of 
past  months,  which  I  have  written  during  the  past 
three  days,  must  have  escaped  from  my  room  like  a 
flight  of  bats  or  rooks,  for  the  increased  bad  humor  of 
my  aunt  can  not  be  explained  otherwise,  and  her  pre- 
dictions of  the  future  have  never  taken  a  less  amiable 
form. 

Solitude  and  poverty,  for  it  seems  that  I  am  poor ; 
walls  of  stone  and  walls  of  forgetfulness — she  sums  up 
all  the  obstacles  which  separate  me  from  the  rest  of  my 
race  with  a  joy  which  she  can  not  conceal ;  and  when 
she  exposes  in  her  paroxysms  of  gayety  her  long  teeth, 
with  decayed  spots  which  make  them  look  like  domi- 
noes,  I  shudder  and  think  of  an  ogress. 

Everything  is  not  shadow,  however,  in  her  predic- 
tions: she  finds  charming  words  to  trace  the  picture  of 


26  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

our  two  lives  lasting  indefinitely  thus  and  finishing  al- 
most together ;  and  at  this  point,  so  as  not  to  burst  into 
tears,  I  have  to  look  at  the  windows,  to  assure  myself 
that  there  are  no  bars  such  as  they  use  to  keep  the  little 
birds  from  escaping  when  they  have  neither  strength 
nor  courage,  and  would  die  for  want  of  food  on  the 
roads. 

The  bitter  waters  have  destroyed  her  illusions ;  and, 
whether  I  will  or  no,  she  wants  me  to  drink  in  my  turn ! 
If  fate  will  not  force  me  to  it,  she  will  herself  stir  the 
cup  of  Quassia  amara,  where  all  becomes  bitter.  Un- 
doubtedly, the  planets  which  have  traced  my  horoscope 
seem  to  her  too  indulgent,  for  she  hopes  to  efface  all 
the  bright  lines  in  it,  so  as  to  bring  it  down  to  the  level 
of  her  own. 

The  men  of  '93  asked  nothing  more,  after  all.  What 
they  wanted  was  that  every  one  should  be  as  miserable 
as  they  were,  and,  to  make  sure  that  no  one  should  dine 
when  they  were  hungry,  they  seized  the  roast.  But 
to  think  that  a  Mademoiselle  d'Epine  could  wear  the 
Phrygian  cap  is  a  difference  ! 

While  waiting  for  events,  I  decide  to  refurnish.  An 
accident  disclosed  to  me  a  fact  which  I  had  suspected — 
that  my  softest  arm-chairs  and  least  dilapidated  cabinets 
ornament  my  aunt's  room.  In  spite  of  her  efforts,  the 
door  stood  ajar,  and  one  of  those  blasts  of  wind  which 
scatter  the  branches  of  our  trees  like  straw  from  the 
thrasher,  threw  it  wide  open  as  I  passed. 

It  was  a  little  palace. 

My  aunt  must  have  consecrated  the  two  years  of  my 


THE    STOKY  OF  COLETTE.  2/ 

absence  to  making  her  nest,  so  soft  and  beautiful  it 
seemed,  only  she  did  it  with  material  that  was  not  her 
own,  like  a  thieving  bird.  1  have  ceased  to  look  for 
the  tapestry  of  the  dining-room,  and  the  few  cushions 
of  the  salon — 1  know  where  they  are ! 

Under  such  circumstances,  delicacy  seemed  to  me 
out  of  place ;  so  I  began  to  bring  into  my  room  all  that 
my  arms,  aided  by  those  of  Benoite,  could  move — four 
arms  with  the  force  of  six  !  And  my  walls  were  fur- 
nished. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  rooms  between  are  left  bare, 
and  from  the  right  wing  to  the  left  wing  there  is  a  huge 
desert  in  which  we  are  guided  on  our  way  by  our 
camp-fires  at  the  two  extremities.  The  dining-room  is 
the  only  place  we  have  in  common,  where  1  have  re- 
spected the  silver,  the  porcelain, 
and  the  chairs !  Seats,  besides,  are 
not  wanting — I  have  a  great  many, 
if  not  much  variety. 

My  three  sofas,  for  example,  are 
all  alike.  They  are  of  carved  oak 
gnawed  by  the  mice,  which  have 
rather  interfered  with  the  details  of 
the  sculpture  ;  and  have  coverings  ^  '^  -^'X'i 
of  green  tapestry,  on  w^hich  beau-  [;, 

tiful   ladies   and    helmeted    knights 
converse  in  a  garden  whose  walks  lead  steeply  up  to 
nothing. 

The  pointed  head-dresses  of  the  ladies  often  touch 
the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  all  the  faces  arc  in  profile — 


28  THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE. 

the  full  face  being  doubtless  too  difficult  to  accomplish 
in  tapestry ;  but  the  effect  is  not  less  gay.  I  have  ar- 
ranged each  sofa  in  a  panel  of  the  wall,  and  my  room 
is  so  long  that  by  the  time  I  have  reached  the  second  1 
have  forgotten  how  the  first  looked.  From  the  first,  it 
would  be  possible  to  see  the  sun  rise ;  the  second  is  op- 
posite the  west ;  and  from  the  third  I  can  see  the  moon, 
if  there  still  is  a  moon  ;  but  to-day  from  all  three  I  have 
seen  only  falling  snow,  and  I  should  have  been  glad  of 
a  fourth  on  which  I  could  go  and  cry. 

One  can  hardly  count  my  tables.  My  aunt  does  not 
care  for  tables,  so  I  had  many  to  choose  from.  There 
are  round  ones,  square  ones,  all  shapes  and  colors,  and 
"  One,"  who  has,  I  am  afraid,  some  of  my  vagabond 
tastes,  tries  l3'ing  under  each  in  turn.  From  underneath 
the  smallest  he  can  hardly  get  out,  and  in  getting  up  he 
finds  himself  caught,  and,  making  a  bound,  flies  from 
the  room,  howling  dismally  and  sending  the  little  draw- 
ers flying.  But  he  will  soon  come  back  and  furnish  me 
with  the  carpet  of  which  my  feet  had  never  greater 
need  ;  if  not,  would  he  deserve  the  name  I  have  given 
him,  and  which  in  its  single  syllable  signifies  so  much  ? 

Formerly,  when  he  was  young,  I  called  him  Pataud, 
an  unpretending  name,  which  I  chose  because  of  his 
heavy  gait  and  big  head  ;  but  I  know  the  world  better 
now,  and  when  I  came  back  here,  and  had  passed  my 
friends  in  review  who  still  remembered  me,  and  proved 
it — only  one  remained,  and  that  was  he  !  Hence  his 
name. 

To  go  back  to  my  furniture,  I  completed  it  with  six 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


29 


pric  -  Dicu  which  I  found  all  toc^ethcr.  They  have 
twisted  columns  and  red-velvet  cushions  with  gold  tas- 
sels, on  which  the  traces  of  knees  remain.  I  lost  myself 
in  reflections  over  these  two  hollows,  imagining  the  his- 
tory and  thoughts  of  those  who  made  them,  but  I  only 
find  a  frightful  smell  of  dust,  and  moths  fly  out  of  them 
with  a  frightened  air,  heavy  still  with  their  long  repast. 

One  of  these  pric-Dicu  I  take  and  put  aside  for  its 
original  use,  but  the  others  must  take  the  i)lace  of  all 
the  furniture  which  I  need — low  chaii'S,  cozy-chairs, 
arm-chairs.  They,  differing  only  by  the  names  I  give 
them,  help  my  illusions,  and  I  could,  if  necessary,  seat 
twelve  persons  at  once — if  they  were  here. 

My  poor  Benoite  is  in  despair  trying  to  arouse  me. 
When  she  sees  me  completely  overcome  with  melan- 
choly, she  employs  her  last  resource  ;  and  she  insinu- 
ates gently,  edging  toward  the  door  in  case  of  need, 
"  Do  you  want  to  come  and  make  cakes,  Colette  dear  ?  " 
But  1  soon  get  tired  of  spoiling  the  dough  and  soiling 
my  fingers  with  the  butter,  and  I  seat  myself  on  the 
hearth  while  she  does  the  work. 

Another  time  she  lets  me  try  her  knitting — an  inter- 
minable stocking,  the  stitches  of  which  1  can  count  at  a 
distance  ;  but  1  do  not  like  knitting  any  better  than 
cooking,  and  the  good  old  soul  is  reduced  to  telling  me 
old  nursery  stories  to  make  me  laugh  :  "  Once  upon  a 
time  there  was  a  king  and  a  queen."  But,  for  the  love 
of  Heaven,  where  are  they  now,  this  king  and  queen, 
and,  since  they  had  no  children,  why  did  they  not  adopt 
me  ? 


30  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

March  jth. 

This  morning  there  was  an  excitement,  and  I  laugh 
again  all  by  mj'self  when  I  think  of  it.  The  provision  of 
ham  and  other  salt  meat  was  exhausted,  and  my  aunt, 
who  is  very  fond  of  them,  sent  an  order  to  the  village 
that  some  should  be  sent,  so  that  about  nine  o'clock  a 
wagon  with  a  linen  cover,  with  the  snow  above  the 
wheels  and  all  the  bells  jingling,  entered  the  court.  It 
was  Bidouillet  arriving  with  his  provisions. 

A  new  face,  a  new  voice,  some  movement  in  the 
court ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  curtain  from  a  new  scene 
had  been  raised,  and  I  rushed  excitedly  down-stairs. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Bidouillet,  it  is  you,  and  you  have 
brought  some  sausages  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  mademoiselle." 

And  the  little  old  man  turned  toward  me  confused 
and  stupefied,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  e)'es  full  of 
astonishment,  looking  out  from  under  his  fur  cap  with 
his  merchandise  in  his  arms,  while  his  son,  who  had  been 
trying  to  rub  the  horse's  legs  dr}'  with  a  wisp  of  straw, 
stopped  like  a  mechanical  toy  that  has  broken  its  spring. 

Evidently  they  were  both  struck  with  my  singular- 
ity. The  warmth  of  my  reception  greatly  astonished 
them,  and  I  am  sure  that  at  the  present  moment  they 
credit  me  with  a  passion  for  ham  and  sausages  which  I 
have  never  possessed  ;  but,  after  one  has  waited  three 
months  for  some  one  to  talk  to,  one  does  not  let  him  slip 
so  easily,  and,  while  Bidouillet,  who  is  no  great  talker, 
followed  Benoite,  I  seized  on  the  boy  whom  I  had  taken 
in  to  warm  himself. 


riiK  STORY  OF  cor.i-yriK. 


31 


"  What  do  they  do  in  the  vilhii^e?  1  low  do  you  j)ass 
your  time?  And  do  they  think  that  the  snow  will  hist 
much  h)nger  ?  " 

But  the  nicjre  I  asked  the  more  mute  he  became,  his 
mouth  stretched  in  a  perpetual  grin,  and  he  was  so 
heartily  amused  at  my  expense  that  his  gavety  became 
contagious,  and  we  both  laughed  like  two  simpletons. 

After  that  he  became  confidential.  1  le  answered  my 
questions,  and  now  1  know  that  in  the  village  during  the 
day  the  people  prepare  seeds,  and  put  their  plows  and 
agricultural  implements  in  order  ;  and  in  the  evening 
they  go  to  one  another's  houses,  where  there  are  heaps 
of  nuts  to  be  cracked  and  apples  to  be  pared  and  cored. 
When  the  work  is  finished,  they  roast  chestnuts  in  the 
ashes  and  drink  some  white  wine,  and  go  home  to  bed 
contentedly. 

It  seems  to  me  that  1  smell  the  feast  from  here,  and  I 
will  open  mv  window  this  evening  to  try  to  hear  the 
merriment  from  afar — like  the  poor  wretch  who  ate  his 
crust  with  a  better  relish  from  the  odor  of  the  roast 
which  he  envied. 

As  for  the  snow,  it  may  continue  or  it  may  stop,  for 
it  is  certain  that  with  the  first  ray  of  the  sun  it  would 
end.  I  think  I  might  have  found  that  out  for  myself, 
and  I  had  supposed  that  among  the  peasants  there  were 
knowing  ones  who  could  foretell  the  weather. 

"  And  when  vou  are  alone  in  the  evenings,  my  boy, 
what  do  vou  do?  "  I  asked  at  length. 

"  We  sav  our  prayers." 

"  And  when  vou  have  finished  ?  " 

3 


^2  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

"  When  I  have  finished,  ah,  my  faith,  Mamselle  Co- 
lette, I  am  already  asleep." 

Then  we  laughed  again,  and  then  we  began  to  talk 
of  the  flocks. 

"  Have  the  Bidouillets  many  ?  What  are  they  ? 
And  who  takes  care  of  them  ?  " 

He  described  the  sheep  one  by  one  like  a  careful 
shepherd — as  he  is ;  and  when  he  added  that  the  work 
would  be  doubled  in  summer,  there  were  so  many 
lambs^ 

"Will  you  not  need  a  shepherdess?"  I  asked  him. 
"  If  so,  I  know  one  who  would  take  the  place,  and  who 
would  not  be  too  exacting  about  pay." 

Immediately  he  assumed  the  cunning  look  of  the 
peasant  who  scents  a  good  bargain,  and  with  an  indif- 
ferent tone  : 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said.  "  Does  she  belong  here,  Mam- 
selle Colette  ?  " 

"  Certainly  she  does,"  I  answered,  "  for  it  is  I." 

For  this  time  it  was  our  last  word !  Astonishment 
seized  him  again,  and  I  could  not  draw  even  a  mo- 
tion from  him  until  his  father  called  him  from  down- 
stairs : 

"  Hello  boy,  are  you  there?" 

I  leave  you  to  guess  his  answer,  and  what  he  must 
have  related  on  their  homeward  way. 

"  Remember  me  when  you  need  some  one,"  I  called 
to  him  as  the  wagon  passed  the  door.  "  I  was  in  earnest 
you  know,"  and  I  came  running  back  delighted  with  my 
morninof. 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


33 


Just  now  I   met  Benoitc  in  the  hall,  and,  in  si)ite  of 
the    pile    of    plates    she    carried,    I 
threw    my    arms   about    her,   calling 
out : 

"  Rejoice,  Benoite,  we  will  crack 
nuts  all  this  eveninj;^." 

"  Nuts,"  she  replied — "  what  for  ? 
Do  you  want  to  eat  them  ?" 

"  No,  no,  my  poor  old  dear;  to 
amuse  ourselves  !     It  seems  it  is  a  very  amusini^  tiiiiii^ 
to  do." 

She  went  off  shaking  her  head,  but  she  has  |)r()in- 
ised  to  bring  some  down  from  the  garret  and  to  find 
two  hammers,  and  we  will  crack  nuts  by  the  fire. 


March  6th. 

For  a  week  our  two  cows  have  been  sick.  The  thing 
does  not  seem  funnv  nor  even  interesting,  but  it  has 
been  the  means  of  making  me  pass  the  best  day  I  have 
had  in  a  long  time. 

The  first  day  they  were  ill  we  drank  tea,  the  second 
coffee,  and  Benoite  spoke  of  a  soup  for  the  third  morn- 
ing; but  Mademoiselle  d'Epine  does  not  like  priva- 
tions, and  she  sent  word  to  a  milk-woman  in  the  vil- 
laire  who  since  then  has  brought  the  necessarv  amount 
of  milk  on  her  donkey  every  morning. 

This  morning,  as  she  arrived  late,  1  was  up  when 
she  came,  and  I  was  looking  at  her  measure  her  milk 
when  my  aunt  rang  violently.  It  is  rare  that  the  huge 
bell  which   rings  from  her  room  to  the  kitchen  is  heard 


34  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

out  of  the  regular  hours,  but  when  it  happens,  it  is  a 
sign  of  something-  unusual ;  and  Benoite,  who  suspected 
the  reason,  took  as  a  precaution  her  bottle  of  liniment, 
guessing  the  return  of  a  rheumatic  pain  in  the  left  shoul- 
der, which  requires,  as  soon  as  it  comes,  repeated  and 
vigorous  rubbing. 

Meanwhile  the  old  woman  had  emptied  her  can,  all 
our  pitchers  were  filled,  and  she  was  ready  to  go. 

"  Did  you  bring  too  much  ?  "  said  I,  seeing  in  the 
other  pack  a  second  can  quite  full. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mamselle  Colette,  there  is  just  what  is 
necessary." 

"  For  us  ?  " 

"  Not  for  you  ;  for  other  people  whose  cows  are  dry 
too." 

"  What !     You  are  going  higher  up  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mamselle,  up  to  the  Nid-du-Fol." 

She  put  on  her  sabots  while  she  was  speaking,  shiv- 
ered a  little  as  she  thought  of  the  cold  outside,  took  up 
her  measure  and  was  almost  gone,  when  suddenly,  irre- 
sistibly, the  idea  seized  me  to  take  her  place  on  the  don- 
key, to  go  and  distribute  the  milk  myself  in  her  name, 
and  so  to  take  a  delightful  ride  in  the  falling  snow. 
Only  to  think  of  it  made  me  wild  with  jo}^  ;  all  the  ac- 
cumulated impatience  of  these  days  when  I  had  been 
shut  up  rushed  over  me,  and  I  imagined  the  donkey 
trotting  in  the  soft  snow,  the  wind  beating  on  my  face, 
and  the  astonishment  of  the  people  up  there  at  the 
change  of  persons. 

The  good  woman,  to  whom  I  had  briefly  explained 


THE    S/OK'Y   OF   CO/J'.TTE.  25 

my  plan,  cried,  protested,  and  called  Benoitc  in  vain.  I 
paid  no  attention  to  her,  and  got  ready  at  once.  Be- 
sides, our  walls  are  so  thick,  1  was  sure  my  nurse  vvf)uld 
not  hear,  and  I  was  certain  that,  even  if  she  wanted  to 
say  no,  I  could  make  her  say  yes. 

At  the  same  time,  I  completely  won  over  the  old 
woman  by  installiiii^  her  near  the  fire,  and  showing-  her 
her  red  nose,  blue  lips,  and  swollen  hands,  and  persuad- 
ing her  that  an  hour's  rest  and  heat  were  just  what  she 
wanted  to  restore  her.  I  assured  her  that  1  would  take 
good  care  of  her  milk  and  of  her  donkey,  and  that  I 
knew  the  road  perfectly,  and  where  all  her  customers 
lived  ;  and,  before  she  could  offer  anv  more  objections, 
1  had  her  cloak  over  my  shoulders,  her  hood  over  my 
head,  and  her  stick  in  my  hand — which  vou  ma\-  be 
sure  I  used  effectually. 

For  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  it  was  delightful: 
tlic  donkey  trotted  gently  along,  the  falling  snow 
touched  my  checks  as  lightly  as  down,  and  I  sang  at 
the  top  of  my  voice  with  the  gayety  of  a  professional 
muleteer.  But,  little  by  little,  the  road  became  steeper, 
and  the  stones  concealed  under  the  snow  made  us  stum- 
ble, and  on  turning  a  corner  a  sudden  gust  of  wind 
sent  my  cloak  to  the  right,  the  hood  to  the  left,  and 
forced  me  to  dismount  to  arrange  my  apparel.  The 
wretched  donkey  seized  the  occasion  to  continue  his 
route,  while  I  pursued  him,  uttering  all  the  exclama- 
tions  I  know  : 

"Oh!     Whoa!     Sto])!" 

When  caught,  it  was  difficult  to  mount  him.     The 


36  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

pack  turned,  there  was  nothing  solid  to  catch  hold  of, 
and  I  placed  m}-  feet  on  a  dozen  little  elevations  before 
finding  one  which  was  not  all  snow  into  which  I  would 
sink  up  to  ray  knees ;  and  at  last  when,  seated  on  this 
tottering  throne,  I  utter  a  cry  of  triumph,  the  donkey 
is  seized  with  a  fit  of  obstinacy.  His  four  feet  seem 
rooted  to  the  ground,  and  in  vain  I  urge  him  with  my 
voice,  or  the  switch,  or  my  heel — he  is  like  a  tower,  ex- 
cept for  the  occasional  jumps  which  he  executes,  and 
which  make  the  milk  spout  from  the  can  so  that  I  am 
sprinkled  with  a  mixture  of  milk  and  snow  up  to  my 
ears.  Then  I  try  all  known  exclamations  to  make  him 
move : 

"  Get  up !  Go  on  !  P-r-r-r — "  up  to  the  moment 
when,  our  two  minds  being  agreed,  he  suddenly  starts. 

At  Nid-du-Fol  the  wind  is  a  cyclone,  and  the  snow 
falls  in  a  solid  mass,  and,  when  we  arrive  at  the  first 
house,  my  nose  and  lips  are  like  those  of  the  old 
woman. 

Everybody  cries  out,  tries  to  warm  me,  but,  as  the 
air  is  getting  colder,  and  they  say  there  will  be  a  tem- 
pest before  long,  I  start  back  almost  immediately.  The 
hill  is  hard  to  go  down,  the  snow,  which  is  freezing,  is 
hard  to  get  over,  and  sliding  and  falling  we  arrive  as 
best  we  may  half-way  down,  when  the  final  catastrophe 
takes  place. 

My  donkey  perceives  with  great  intelligence  that 
safety,  which  is  impossible  for  the  two  of  us,  is  still  pos- 
sible for  him  ;  he  lets  slip  his  four  feet  at  once,  rolls 
over,  and  deposits  me  in  a  deep  hollow  where  the  bed 


My  donkey  perceives  with  {^reat  intelligence. 


77/A    SrOKV   OF   COLiriTE.  yj 

of  snow  receives  me  like  a  mattress,  but  where  1  am 
more  entangled  than  in  a  nest  (jf  featliers,  while  he  starts 
off  at  a  gallop  that  shakes  the  ground. 

It  was  certainly  tunny,  and  my  first  impression  was 
one  of  amusement,  for  I  thought  1  coidd  get  up  as  soon 
as  I  liked — but  probably  the  shock  had  slightly  stunned 
me,  for  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  I  found  it  impcjssible, 
and  I  felt  myself  so  helpless  that  I  compared  myself,  I 
remember,  to  a  May-bug  turnetl  on  its  back  w  ith  its  feet 
in  the  air. 

All  my  limbs  were  powerless,  and  gradually  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  my  intelligence  and  will  melted  and 
ran  out  of  me  like  the  snow  that  dissolved  on  my  fin- 
gers, and  that  my  head  was  gradually  getting  empty  of 
all  1  was  accustomed  to  find  in  it. 

Otherwise  the  position  was  not  disagreeable.  The 
depth  of  the  hole  preserved  me  from  tiie  wind,  and  my 
bed,  in  spite  of  its  coldness,  was  soft,  so  soft  that  I  sank 
farther  and  farther  in,  and,  very  gently,  other  flakes  fall- 
ing, covered  me  like  a  corpse  that  they  cover  softly 
over. 

As  time  passed,  I  felt  the  cold  less;  I  liked  the  sleep 
that  was  stealing  over  me,  and,  in  sj)ite  of  the  distinct 
impression  I  had  that  1  should  never  be  taken  out,  1  did 
not  feel  afraid,  and  I  could  willingly  have  smiled. 

Only  my  lips  refused  to  move,  and  I  experienced 
what  statues  must  experience,  if  statues  ever  think — a 
desire  to  move  an  arm  which  is  in  marble,  and  can  not 
move,  words  which  can  not  pass  a  throat  that  has  not 
been  animated,  and  ideas  which   can  not  work  in  a  brain 


,g  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

that  is  petrified  and  where  nothing  moves.  Then  little 
by  little — a  blank !  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  1  was  no 
longer  a  girl  in  flesh  and  blood,  but  a  mass  of  lead,  so 
heavy  I  seemed. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  this  suspension  of  life  lasted. 
Was  it  an  hour,  a  day  ? — it  matters  little.  I  think  I 
should  have  suffered  no  more  if  it  had  been  prolonged, 
and,  when  I  regained  my  consciousness,  I  was  very  near 
being  angry  because  so  comfortable  a  rest  had  been  in- 
terrupted. 

On  one  side  of  my  bed  was  great  grief — it  was  my 
poor  Benoite;  on  the  other,  I  feel  a  moist  nose  which 
forces  its  way  under  the  sheet,  and  thus  I  come  back  to 
life  between  my  two  best  friends.  On  one  of  my  sofas, 
disregarding  the  dignity  of  my  beautiful  ladies,  the 
milk-woman  is  sobbing,  and  one  of  my  first  observations 
is  that  her  hands  are  as  red  as  ever.  Why  has  she  not 
warmed  them  in  all  this  time  ? 

In  the  meanwhile  I  am  still  a  little  doubtful.  Is  my 
bed  of  snow  or  wool  ?  But  on  stretching  out  my  hands 
I  touch  on  each  side  bottles  of  hot  water,  and  a  series 
of  them  down  to  my  feet.  It  is  a  cremation.  It  is 
useless  to  speak  of  the  reaction  one  experiences  after 
great  cold  ;  I  should  certainly  not  have  felt  this  heat  in 
my  ditch.     I  believe  decidedly  that  I  am  at  home. 

Besides,  the  only  familiar  face  wanting  to  complete 
the  picture  comes  out  of  the  shadow,  and  I  hear  the 
voice  of  my  aunt : 

"  She  is  crazy,  raving  mad,  and  I  repeat  to  you  that 
I  can  do  nothing  with  her !     But,  really,  she  might  have 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  39 

reflected  that  \vc  arc  not  orj^anizcd  for  takin<^  care  of 
frozen  people  here." 

So,  1  am  frozen.  This  idea  iinj)resses  nie,  and,  while 
the  door  is  closed  bv  the  aniiai)le  hand  1  know  so  well, 
all  the  stories  that  I  have  heard  Hash  upon  \w\  mind, 
and  I  have  visions  that  make  me  shudder,  of  toes  com- 
ing of?  with  the  boots,  and  hands  falling  off  with  the 
gloves.  Good  Heaven!  where  have  mine  been  left? 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  in  spun  glass,  and,  seized  with 
fright  in  thinking  (jf  my  fragilit\-,  I  dare  ncjt  move,  until 
a  cry  of  joy  from  my  old  nurse,  on  hearing  me  breathe, 
makes  me  laugh  in  spite  of  myself. 

ISIy  lips  are  solid.  1  risk  putting  out  my  arms 
toward  her,  and  1  find  with  })leasure  all  my  fingers  at- 
tached to  my  hands.      It  is  a  delightful  moment. 

Then  comes  my  story — a  terrible  story,  like  that  of 
rescues  on  the  Mont  St.  Bernard,  where  the  dog  in  the 
person  of  "  One  "  plavs  his  part ;  and  I  learn  that,  next 
to  the  dog,  I  owe  mv  life  to  the  rapid  galloping  of  the 
donkey  on  his  return  journey. 

A  little  hesitation,  a  little  less  force,  the  print  of  his 
hoofs  being  three  quarters  filled  up,  which  they  fol- 
lowed in  coming  to  look  for  me,  and  I  should  have 
stayed  in  mv  hole  until  next  spring! 

After  the  tears  and  i)ity,  the  scolding  came  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  and  Benoite  vowed  that  she  would  never 
forgive  me. 

Her  tone  is  so  serious  this  time  that  I  think  1  shall 
have  to  wait  imtil  I  kiss  her  for  good-night,  to  make  my 
peace  and  to  see  her  tenderness  come  back. 


40 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


Meanwhile    she    fills    me    with    hot    tea,    which    she 
brings  without  looking  at  me,  and 
offers  turning  her  head  away  ;  and 
in     the     intervals    "  One " 
waits  on  me  all  alone.     It 
is    he   who    has  given   me 
my    book,    pen,    even    my 
bottle     of     ink,    and     that 
without    even    soiling    the 
points  of  his  teeth  ;   it  is  half  to 
him,  my  mute  listener,  that  I  tell  all  this. 


March  yth. 

If  it  were  not  for  the  zealous  watch  Benoite  keeps 
on  me  I  would  go  back  to  my  hole,  for  really  anything 
is  preferable  to  the  life  I  lead  here. 

No  ill  effects  have  remained  of  my  adventure.  I 
have  not  even  sneezed,  and  all  I  have  gained  is  that  I 
have  no  longer  the  right  to  pass  the  threshold  without 
my  dog's  holding  me  by  the  dress,  and  howling  until 
Benoite  arrives  and  makes  me  come  in. 

Just  now  I  took  up  the  book  with  the  story  of  the 
princesses  who  lived  long  ago,  and  I  found  that  I  knew 
it  by  heart,  for,  without  turning  the  first  page,  I  contin- 
ued the  phrase  I  was  reading,  and  I  am  afraid  I  must 
wait  for  weeks  to  forget  it  sufficiently.  The  calendar 
which  I  made  for  myself,  where  I  effaced  a  day  each 
night,  went  too  slowly  for  me.  I  have  made  another  for 
all  the  hours  of  the  day,  and,  although  the  occupation  is 
twelve  times  more  frequent,  I  catch   myself  moving  the 


IHE    STORY  01-    COLETTE.  41 

hands  of  the  clock  so  as  to  have  the  pleasure  soon  of 
passint^  my  pen  throii<^h  the  hour  that  1  kill. 

Certainly,  this  can  not  <;o  on. 

The  roads  will  not  always  be  blocked,  and  I  will  then 
find  some  way  to  occupy  my  time,  even  if  I  have  to 
travel  about  the  country  with  a  peddler's  pack  on  my 
back  I 

I  have  thought  about  doinj;  it ;  I  have  even  th(night 
what  I  could  take.  But  there  is  so  little  of  anything 
here.  After  much  searching  I  have  found  ten  old 
silk  dresses  in  the  closets,  and  in  a  box  some  ends  of 
old  lace — but  what  would  our  peasants  do  with  such 
things  ? 

A  life  I  have  dreamed  of  is  that  of  a  servant  at  the 
village  inn  I  To  see  people  every  day,  to  be  always 
active,  to  be  always  able  to  talk  ;  to  laugh  and  to  work 
fnjm  morning  to  night — that  is  a  life  worth  living  !  But 
would  they  take  me  at  the  inn  ?  That  is  what  I  do  not 
know. 

In  the  meanwhile  sadness  makes  me  weak. 

I  make  concessions,  compromises.  1  find  myself 
sacrificing  something  in  the  color  of  mv  ideal,  which  up 
to  the  present  I  have  been  so  decided  about.  I  have 
even  thought  of  blonde  hair  with  blue  eyes,  and  a  good- 
natured  look,  a  small  beard,  a  small  person — anything, 
in  fact,  if  he  will  take  mc  from  here. 

Solitude  enervates,  and  I  begin  to  understand  that 
one  can  be  tortured  so  as  to  deny  one's  firmest  convic- 
tions. 

My  torture  at  first  appeared  light  to  me,  but   finally 


.2  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

— finally,  I  think  it  would  make  me  pass  through  the 
circle  of  a  ring  if  I  thought  I  could  escape  from  it  in 
that  way, 

March  8th. 

INIy  friend  the  milk- woman  has  just  been  here  to  ask 
for  me,  and  came  up  to  my  room  to  assure  herself  that 
I  had  escaped  in  good  health. 

She  hardly  believed  her  eyes,  and  confessed  that  for 
an  hour  she  had  thought  I  was  dead. 

How  strange  things  are  !  I  have  not  even  a  scratch, 
but  the  donkey,  who  thought  he  was  doing  so  well  for 
himself,  has  to  be  kept  in  the  stable  in  consequence  of  a 
terrible  cold,  straw  all  about  him,  and  warm  drink  served 
in  his  drinking-trough. 

The  good  woman  does  not  worry  about  him.  He  is 
subject,  it  appears,  to  such  small  ailings,  and,  with  his 
feet  warmly  wrapped  up,  he  gets  quickly  over  them. 

So  all  is  for  the  best,  and  I  made  my  visitor  sit  down, 
delighted  to  have  a  human  being  to  talk  to,  and  resolved 
to  make  her  stay  as  long  as  I  could. 

Naturally,  my  adventure  came  up,  and  T  laughed  in 
listening  to  her  exclamations  of  fright  and  pity. 

"  It  is  certain,"  she  said,  with  a  thoughtful  air,  "  that 
for  a  young  person  the  life  here  is  not  gay,  and  one  can 
understand  that  sometimes  you  try  to  get  out  of  it." 

She  thought  about  it  for  some  time,  then  very  simply 
she  inquired  if  I  did  not  think  that  the  best  thing  for  me 
would  be  to  marry  and  go  away,  and  whether  my  aunt 
was  not  trying  to  do  something  about  it. 

I  answered  no,  and  this  time  very  seriously  ;  and  as 


THE    STORY   OF   COLI-yiTE. 


43 


she  went  out  of  the  chjor  1  licard  her  mutter  to  herself, 
"The  Mother  Lancien  could,  perhaps,  g'ive  some  p^ood 
advice."  1  did  not  think  ot  (luestionini^  her  thtn,  but  1 
am  in  a  hurry  for  to-morrow  to  come,  so  that  I  can  Imd 
out  who  this  Mother  Lancien  is  who  gives  good  advice, 
and  who,  according  to  my  milk-woman,  may  help  me. 

March  gth. 

It  seems  to  me  that  one  of  the  tiles  of  my  ro(jf  has 
been  taken  off,  and  that  for  the  first  time  I  see  blue  sky, 
and  that  I  can  already  reach  out  my  arm — the  revela- 
tions of  my  old  woman  have  given  me  such  hope. 

To-morrow  I  will  have  the  advice  of  Mother  Lancien, 
if  I  know  myself ;  and,  if  the  oracle  of  this  sibyl  does 
not  help  me,  it  must  be  that  my  case  is  desperate,  and 
there  is  no  more  hope  for  me.  1  will  then  struggle  no 
longer,  but  clasp  my  hands  and  say,  Amen  ! 

Why  did  1  not  hear  of  such  a  woman  before  ?  I  can 
only  explain  it  to  m\self  by  seeing  how  little  the  bats 
and  owls  among  our  ruins  know  of  what  is  going  on  in 
the  neighboring  dove-cote. 

However,  the  veneration  in  which  she  is  held  is  so 
great,  it  might  have  reached  us  ;  one  should  hear  my 
milk-woman  talk  of  her.  When  she  spoke  about  her  just 
now,  one  thought  of  a  Levite  unveiling  the  altar  before 
an  attentive  crowd  ;  and,  on  listening  to  her,  I  caught 
myself  getting  up  to  bow  each  time  that  her  name  was 
spoken,  as  we  used  to  bow  during  vespers  at  the  Ciloria 
Patri,  our  heads  all  bending  at  the  same  moment,  like 
wheat  when  the  wind  jiasses  over  it.     It  was  not  that  I 


44 


THE     STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


felt  like  laughing.  I  shall  always  venerate  the  magic 
wand,  whether  it  be  of  hazel  or  cedar,  and  I  already  re- 
spect the  cap  of  my  counselor. 

Death,  marriage,  birth.  This  woman  is  interested  in 
whatever  takes  place  in  the  village.  Is  it  she  who 
blesses  the  young  couples,  and  distributes  to  each  child 
its  lot  in  life  ?  I  am  tempted  to  believe  it  is,  and,  if  I 
were  born  at  Erlange,  I  would  go  and  complain  to  her 
of  what  I  have  received. 

She  is  something  of  a  doctor,  taking  away  the  prac- 
tice of  the  one  from  the  city  ;  she  mends  and  cures  like 
a  fairy.  Sprains,  cuts,  malignant  fevers,  she  cures  all ; 
and,  as  her  plasters  smell  of  tallow,  and  her  medicines  of 
mint  and  thyme,  and  her  prescriptions  are  given  in  patois 
— all  things  the  rustics  know — ever}^  one  has  confidence 
and  takes  them. 

Besides,  she  is  not  exclusive  ;  she  receives  all  patients, 
and  more  than  one  is  brought  to  her  from  the  hen-house 
or  the  stable. 

She  knows  the  mixture  to  give  so  that  a  hen  shall  lay 
at  the  proper  time,  the  feed  that  fattens  and  that  which 
is  hurtful,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that,  if  she  had  been 
employed  soon  enough,  our  cows  would  never  have 
known  the  humiliation  of  being  dry. 

To  complete  an  enumeration  of  her  qualities,  and 
what  touches  me  more  directly,  her  skill  does  not  stop 
with  material  concerns  ;  there  is  no  affair,  however 
troublesome  it  seems,  that  she  can  not  arrange.  Like 
handsome  Percinet  in  the  fairy-tale,  who  could  sort  three 
barrels  of  humminof-birds'  feathers  with  three  waves  of 


TJIE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  45 

his  wand,  she  finds  remedies  for  troubles  with  equal 
facility  ;  and  tlie  most  unbelieving^,  those  who  go  to  her 
as  a  last  resource,  come  away  satisfied. 

So  that  the  procession  never  ceases — animals  that  are 
dragged  by  the  halter,  sick  {jcoplc  that  are  led  hv  the 
arm,  or  patients  who  come  to  consult  her  at  twilight. 

A  holy  woman,  a  good  woman  she  is,  if  there  ever 
was  one,  whose  magic  is  no  black-art,  and  who  has  no 
witch's  stew,  and  who  has  even  time  to  go  and  burn  can- 
dles for  the  needs  of  her  clients  ! 

1  will  certainly  see  her  to-morrow,  even  if  Benoite 
sleeps  before  my  door  to  hinder  my  going  out.  Besides, 
my  poor  old  nurse  will  only  hear  about  it  afterward,  I 
hope  ;  I  arrange  my  plans  in  the  dark,  and  I  prepare  my 
pilgrim's  staff  and  caj)e  most  secretly — to  such  an  extent 
that  I  do  not  even  let  "  One  "  into  the  secret.  I  suspect 
his  too  great  zeal,  and  there  are  cases  where  a  dog  may 
say  too  much,  in  spite  of  his  enforced  reserve. 

Behind  the  door  where  I  have  shut  him  u])  he 
whines  piteously,  and  scratches  so  violently  that  I  think 
he  hopes  to  make  a  hole  through  which  he  can  see. 
But  1  am  watching,  and,  the  better  to  keep  my  secret, 
I  shall  not  speak  of  it  any  more,  even  to  myself,  until 
to-morrow. 

March  loth. 

There  is  certainly  some  secret  affinity  between  the 
snow  and  me,  and  it  was  very  near  keeping  me  in  cus- 
todv  again  this  morning. 

But  1  had  something  better  this  time  to  do  than  to 
go  to  sleep  in  the  wind.     The  man  who  carries  a  treas- 


46 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


ure,  and  he  who  goes  empty-handed,  walk  very  differ- 
ently.    I  struggled,  and  here  I  am  ! 

I  got  out  very  easily.  With  Benoite  engaged  in  a 
serious  cleaning,  and  "  One  "  shut  up  in  a  closet,  I  was 
safe. 

With  my  dress  well  taken  up,  my  mountain-shoes, 
and  a  cloak  fit  for  a  grandmother  on  my  shoulders,  I 

was  ready  to  go  to  Siberia, 
and  never  was  there  a  gayer 
walk. 

Besides,  I  had  not  taken 
five  hundred  steps  when  a 
black  ball  rolled  over  and 
over  on  the  road — and  my 
poor  dog  had  joined  me. 

Had  he  knocked  over  the 
wardrobe,  broken  down  the 
door,  or  torn  off  the  lock  ?  I 
do  not  know,  but  from  the 
moment  that  I  was  certain 
that  he  had  not  spread  the 
news  of  my  escape,  and  that  no  one  was  following 
me,  I  confess  that  I  was  delighted  to  have  him  with 
me  along  the  road,  and  to  be  able  to  discuss  with  him 
all  we  were  going  to  do  and  s?i\. 

The  house  of  the  Mother  Lancien  is  a  little  way 
from  the  village,  in  a  small  grove  of  pine-trees,  whose 
branches  spread  out  so  as  almost  to  form  a  second  roof. 
The  snow  is  well  trodden  down  on  the  path  that  leads 
to   it,  and   I  am  sure  that  in  summer  the  grass  is  well 


THE   STOKY  OF  COLETTE. 


47 


worn.  For  sonic  reason,  I  headed  the  ])r()cession  this 
morning,  and  my  solitude  promised  me  a  lonj;  eonfer- 
ence. 

While  I  knock  jj^entiv  at  the  door,  1  look  swiftly  in 
at  the  window.  The  prophetess  is  there,  sitting;  by  the 
hearth.  Before  her  are  five  or  six  smoking  saucepans, 
and  farther  back  a  big  pot  whose  cover  the  good  woman 
lifts  delicately  to  smell  the  odor.  I  la  I  that  smells  of 
fresh  meat,  it  seems  to  me!  A  little  shiver  runs  down 
mv  back,  and,  without  knocking  again,  I  step  back  a  lit- 
tle. But,  bah  !  sorceresses  know  everything  !  Through 
the  wall  this  one  sees  me  ;  she  gets  up,  opens  the  door, 
looks  tit  me  a  moment  crouching  against  the  wall  and 
abashed  as  a  little  himgrv  chimney-sweep,  and,  without 
more  astonishment  than  if  1  had  come  to  her  for  the 
twentieth  time,  says — 

"  Mamselle  Colette?  Come  in  and  warm  yourself  a 
little  ;  the  wind  is  bitter  this  morning  I  ** 

Then  she  settles  me  in  a  large  straw-seated  arm- 
chair, and,  while  "  One  "  stretches  himself  at  my  feet, 
extending  his  paws  luxuriously  on  the  warm  hearth, 
she  sits  down  again  in  her  place  opposite  me. 

At  the  first  moment.  1  must  sav  I  was  much  etubar- 
rassed.  1  had  thrown  my  cloak  on  tiie  back  of  mv 
chair,  and  tiie  melting  snow  was  drij)])ing  down  mv 
back,  but  1  did  not  think  of  retreating. 

She,  during  this  time,  arranged  the  fire,  brushed 
up  the  ashes,  without  speaking  ;  then  at  the  moment 
when,  beingf  no  lonirer  able  to  control  mvselt,  I  was 
going  to  say  some  stupid  thing — 


48  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

"Do  you  like  them  hot?"  she  asked,  quietly,  un- 
covering the  big  pot  again,  and  taking  out  some  pota- 
toes just  cooked. 

Where  the  skin  was  cracked,  the  mealy  part — al- 
most silvery,  it  was  so  white — was  bursting  out  in 
little  rolls,  and  the  rose-colored  steam  nearly  filled  the 
room. 

By  this  time  my  embarrassment  was  gone,  and  lit- 
tle by  little,  and  interrupting  m3'self  to  blow  on  my 
fingers  or  to  change  my  potato  from  hand  to  hand,  I 
told  her  my  troubles,  and  asked  her  advice. 

Mother  Lancien  listened  quietly  to  the  end  without 
even  a  gesture,  her  arms  crossed  over  her  head,  and 
with  an  expression  which  became  more  and  more 
smiling. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  when  I  had  finished,  "  your 
case  is  not  very  serious,  and  I  know  of  hardly  any  that 
are  at  twenty  ;  but  I  am  afraid  the  good  people  about 
here  have  deceived  you  as  to  what  I  can  do,  and  that 
you  credit  me  with  a  power  that  does  not  belong  to 
me.  My  remedies  are  very  simple,  and  you  could  find 
just  as  good  ones,  perhaps  better,  if  you  looked  for 
them. 

"  In  cold  weather  like  this,  for  example,  I  force 
people  with  fevers  and  coughs  to  stay  in  bed — all  who 
have  no  reason  for  being  out ;  and  at  the  same  time  I 
send  out  all  the  men  with  sanguine  temperaments, 
those  vv^ho  like  to  sit  by  the  fire  and  smoke  their  pipes. 
In  both  these  cases  the  remedy  is  good,  and  Mother 
Lancien  has  the  reputation  of  working  a  miracle.     It  is 


"My  child,"  she  said,   "your  case  is  not  very  serious. 


THE   STORY  OT  COLE'JTE. 


49 


the  same  with  all  the  rest.  Between  ourselves  wc  can 
say — can't  we — that  it  is  not  a  difficult  matter. 

"Now  you  are  offended,  and  \()u  think  that,  if 
you  had  known  this  before,  you  would  not  have  taken 
this  lon<;^  walk  to  find  an  old  woman  who  can  do  so 
little  !     Perhaps,  however,  we  shall  find  what  you  need. 

"If  the  times  of  fairies  and  enchanters  are  passed, 
there  are  still  ^^ood  s^eniuses  readv  to  helj)  us  in  our 
troubles,  and  it  is  to  them  that  I  advise  ^■ou  to  go.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  speak  lightly  of  them,  or  compare 
them  to  those  that  were  invented  long  ago!  But  in 
this  .case,  where  no  one  on  earth  can  help  you,  why 
have  you.  mv  young  ladv,  forgotten  the  saints  in  Para- 
dise ?" 

"  The  saints  in  Paradise  !  "  1  confess  this  stu])efied 
me,  and  that  if  Mother  Lancien  had  drawn  from  her 
bread-box  a  young  and  handsome  cavalier  with  a  point- 
ed mustache  and  {)lumed  hat  in  hand,  it  would  hardly 
have  astonished  me  more.  However,  as  she  was  await- 
ing my  answer,  I  replied.  "  I  did  not  think  of  them." 

"  Verv  well,"  she  said,  "  it  is  just  as  I  supposed." 

And  she  began  to  explain  to  me  so  clearly  how  one 
obtains  in  praving  all  one  desires — how  one  must  go 
to  work ;  of  whom  to  ask  such  a  favor,  and  of  whom 
another  —  that  it  really  seemed  as  if  she  had  lived  fa- 
miliarlv  with  the  great  saints  of  whom  she  spoke,  and 
that  she  understood  all  their  feelings. 

"When  vou  were  a  child,"  she  said,  "whom  did 
you  ask  to  give  you  the  fruit  that  grew  out  of  your 
reach    on   the    trees  ?      Was  it  not    taller    jK-ople    than 


50  THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 

you  ?  But  you  are  grown  up,  and  large  enough  to  help 
yourself  to  what  you  want  on  the  earth  ;  but  for  that 
which  is  still  out  of  your  reach,  do  as  you  used  to 
do,  ask  some  one  higher  still,  for  there  will  always  be 
things  which  you  can  not  attain." 

She  spoke  so  simply  but  so  grandly,  if  one  may  use 
the  word,  that,  without  prejudice  to  our  cure,  I  may  say 
it  was  better  than  any  of  his  sermons  ;  and  her  faith 
was  so  real  and  so  contagious,  that  my  heart  beat  in 
listening  to  her,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  up  in  the  sky, 
through  the  little  window-panes,  I  saw  all  the  inhab- 
itants of  Paradise,  with  their  hands  half  open,  smiling 
to  me  from  afar,  and  ready,  as  soon  as  I  asked  them,  to 
send  me  all  the  things  at  their  disposal. 

Why  I  had  never  thought  of  them  I  can  not  imag- 
ine ;  and  when  I  think  of  the  place  which  my  fieuvainc* 
holds  at  present  in  my  life  and  in  my  heart,  I  am  tempt- 
ed to  weep  for  my  lost  time. 

But  it  is  not  worth  the  while  now.  Nine  days  are 
so  soon  over,  and  they  seem  so  short  when  one  knows 
that  happiness  is  at  the  end  of  them  ! 

The  Mother  Lancien  told  me  that  it  is  to  Saint  Jo- 
seph that  I  ought  to  address  m3'self,  as  it  is  not  within 
the  memory  of  man  that  he  has  rejected  such  a  prayer 
as  mine.  Only,  the  prayers  must  be  frequent  and  the 
faith  unwavering. 

Unwavering  faith  I  certainly  have,  as  if  the  saint 
himself  had  pledged  his  word,  and  for  an  empire  I 
would  not  prolong  my  prayers  half  an  hour  beyond  the 

*  Nine  days'  ])iayer. 


The  altar  I  have  made  for  my  saint  is  superb. 


7 HE    STORY   Ol-'   COLETTE. 


51 


nine  days.  Moses  paid  too  dearly  for  the  thoughtless- 
ness of  the  second  stroke  of  his  rod  on  Iloreb.  1  will 
keep  to  one.  Only,  I  will  strike  conscientiously,  and  I 
will  iiiid  such  conyinciui^  words  that  perhaps  the  waters 
will  gush  out  before  the  end  of  the  nine  days. 

Oh,  this  Mother  Lancicu  !  I  worship  her.  And,  if 
she  likes,  I  will  find  a  place  for  her  in  the  carriage  that 
takes  nie  away. 

March  nth. 

The  altar  I  have  made  for  my  saint  is  superb ;  a 
whole  corner  of  my  room  is  transformed  by  it. 

What  gave  me  the  most  trouble  was  to  find  a  statue 
of  him,  and  in  despair  1  was  going  to  take  one  of  Saint 
John  the  Baptist  in  his  stead,  and  beg  him  to  allow  him- 
self to  be  prayed  to  as  Saint  Joseph,  when  I  discovered 
what  I  needed  in  a  corner  of  the  chapel. 

The  statue  is  small,  in  silver,  and  the  lovclv  little 
branch  of  lilies  that  he  holds  in  his  hand  has  all  the 
grace  of  natural  flowers. 

By  putting  several  things  under  it,  I  succeeded  in 
making  it  higher  than  the  candelabras.  and  at  a  distance, 
dimly  seen  high  up,  it  appears  still  smaller,  half  lost  in 
the  sky. 

In  front  I  have  ])ut  branches  of  hollv  with  red  ber- 
ries gathered  from  above  the  snow  in  the  park,  and  all 
vc\y  prie-dicu,  which  I  will  not  put  to  any  profane  use  any 
more. 

March  12th. 
How    will    he   come  to  my  aid  ?     Under  what  form 
will   he   send    my    liberator?      I    can    not  even    make    a 


52 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


guess,  and  I  lose  myself  in  dreams  as  to  how  a  saint  can 
manage  from  heaven  to  come  to  the  aid  of  a  Colette 
here  in  the  mountains. 

In  what  mysterious  way  will  he  cause  a  stranger  to 
venture  here  ?  And  how  will  this  personage  present 
himself  ?  Will  he  ring  the  big  bell  at  the  entrance,  and 
to  announce  himself  will  he  say  to  Benoite,  "  Here  I  am^ 
mademoiselle  ;  it  is  I  who  have  been  sent  by  Saint  Jo- 
seph "  ? 

I  wonder  and  wonder  until  I  give  it  up. 

Then  I  am  afraid  that  my  surmises  and  questionings 
are  not  the  complete  faith  which  Mother  Lancien  said 
was  necessary.  "  Blind  faith,"  she  said.  Then  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  ears,  and  think  of  nothing. 

March  ijth. 

I  say  my  prayers  so  often,  I  kneel  in  front  of  my 
statuette  so  many  times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  that  I 
am  sometimes  afraid  of  wearying  him  with  my  monot- 
ony, and  I  rack  my  brains  to  vary  my  formula. 

I  turn  my  phrases,  and  put  new  words  to  the  same 
idea ;  I  choose  my  expressions  with  the  coquetry  of  a 
careful  writer,  and  T  wish  I  knew  several  languages,  so 
as  to  say  my  prayer  in  the  morning  in  French,  at  noon 
in  Italian,  and  at  night  in  Spanish,  to  give  variety. 

As  the  days  go  on,  my  hope  becomes  a  certainty. 

Only  five  days  more  !  ^^'^''^^^  ^4th. 

In  spite  of  myself,  there  are  moments  when  I  lose  my 
calm.  The  event,  which  is  approaching  so  rapidly,  and 
which  will  change  all  mv  life,  moves  and  agitates  me. 


THE   STOKY   OF  COLETTE. 


53 


It  seems  to  nic  that  1  ought  to  be<;iii  to  make  some 
preparations  lor  it,  and  this  morning  I  began  to  arrange 
my  wardrobe,  and  the  little  ornaments  that  1  am  fond  of. 

While  1  was  biisv,  Benoite  came  in,  and  as  she 
looked  at  me  while  I  was  folding  two  summer  dresses, 
she  said,  laughingly,  "  Are  you  going  awa\-,  my  dear 
Colette?" 

1  did  not  answer,  for  1  consider  that  I  have  not  Net 
the  right  to  confide  in  her;  but  she  did  not  know  how 
truly  she  spoke. 

March  i^th. 

Certainl}',  my  saint  and  I  understand  each  other  bet- 
ter every  day.  This  morning,  as  1 
was  taking  off  the  smallest  possible 
particles  of  dust  with  my  finest 
cambric  handkerchief,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  there  was  a  smile  in  his 
eyes,  and  that  he  moved  his  branch 
of  lilies  slightly  as  a  sign  of  encour- 
agement. 

March  i6th. 

Is  there  something  new  in  my 
face  or  manner,  I  wonder?  for  mv 
aunt  looks  at  me  imeasilv. 

I   looked  in  the  glass  to  see  what 
I  could   have  revealed  ;   I   onlv  saw 
my  cheeks  a  little  rosier,  and  mv  eves  a  little  darker. 
It  seems  to  me  that  all  my  colors  are  richer,  and  that 
evervthing  about  me  heralds  the  approach  of  the  great 
event. 


54 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


My  poor  "  One  "  does  not  understand  in  the  least 
what  I  am  about.  Formerly,  when  1  kneeled  on  the 
floor  it  was  to  get  nearer  him,  and  he  rolled  himself  up, 
read}^  to  play,  or  to  serve  as  a  cushion.  Now  I  force 
him  to  be  absolutely  silent,  and  my  finger  is  always 
raised  when  he  approaches  me. 

March  ijth. 

My  agitation  increases,  and  I  do  not  know  what  new 
thing  to  do  to  show  my  fervor. 

My  faith  constantly  grows  stronger,  so  that  I  am 
even  afraid  it  may  become  presumption,  I  feel  so  quiet 
and  certain.  I  begin  to  count  on  my  fingers  the  three 
cardinal  virtues,  but  stop  at  faith. 

Faith  moves  mountains,  it  is  said  ;  why,  then,  should 
it  not  make  the  small  breach  in  my  walls  that  would  en- 
able me  to  get  out  ? 

All  seems  favorable,  and  significant  coincidences  are 
not  wanting. 

Of  all  the  months  of  the  year,  this  counsel  was  given 
to  me  in  the  month  of  March,  the  month  of  Saint  Jo- 
seph, and  this  nine  days'  pra3^er,  which  was  begun  by 
accident,  without  premeditation,  almost  without  reflec- 
tion, will  be  ended  on  the/r/r-dav  of  the  saint  ! 

Without  being  too  sanguine,  or  being  too  eager,  I 
may  say  that  it  is  evident  that  this  was  arranged  for  me 
— a  silent  guardianship  of  which  I  understand  perfectly 
the  value,  and  know  what  the  result  will  be  ! 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETrK. 


55 


March  jSth. 

The  wind  blows,  the  snow  falls  in  masses,  and  before 
this  iinmaculate  coverinij^  I  am  frij^htened  to  think  of 
the  risks  of  my  poor  traveler. 

Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  this  asi)ect  (jf  nafuic 
is  a  picture  of  my  life :  level  and  colorless  like  the  pure 
white  snow  that  covers  the  fields — waiting  for  the 
marks  of  footsteps  !  Then  I  forget  analogies  in  think- 
ing of  the  present  moment — tiie  practical  side  of  it 
all. 

Will  he  be  able  to  make  out  his  way  between  the 
two  lines  of  hill ;  and  if  an  accident  happens  to  him  as 
to  me,  and  he  loses  his  footing  suddenly  on  the  edge  of 
some  ditch,  who  will  come  to  warn  me? 

If  1  had  still  time,  1  would  look  for  another  saint, 
and  I  would  pray  him  to  lighten  his  wav  with  a  little 
sunshine,  to  make  the  journey  less  difficult. 

But  that  would  be  to  doubt,  and  perhai)s  niv  own 
saint  would  be  angry — so  I  trust  myself  to  him  en- 
tirely ! 

Afarck  igth. 

The  dav  of  the  commencement  of  my  new  life,  the 
day  of  destiny  for  me  !  I  am  all  agitation,  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  mv  blood  is  boiling  in  my  veins  and  ready  to 
burst  forth. 

Mv  pravers  even  do  not  tranquillize  me.  To-day  I 
kneel  in  front  of  the  window;  mv  voice  can  easih'  reach 
the  altar,  while  I  keep  my  eves  fixed  on  the  court. 

Everv  noise  agitates  lue,  the  least  movement  makes 
me  tremble.    1  hear  footsteps!    "  Are  thev  his.-*"    Some 


c5  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

one  knocks  !  "  Have  they  come  to  look  for  me  ?  " — 
And  so  for  everything. 

However,  I  do  not  think  he  can  be  here  before 
noon.  That  hour  is  the  epoch  of  the  day.  It  is  the 
middle,  and,  though  we  can  not  see  the  sun,  we  know 
that  it  turns  in  its  course  at  that  time. 

Also  for  me  there  would  be  an  analogy — my  early 
morning  is  finished,  the  full  day  is  about  to  open. 

Everything  is  ready  !  I  have  put  on  my  most  be- 
coming dress,  and  in  my  hair  and  at  my  belt  I  have  put 
two  little  branches  of  green — the  color  of  hope,  the  only 
thing  that  the  cold  has  not  killed  in  the  park  or  in  my 
heart !  Without  saying  anything,  I  persuaded  Benoite 
to  make  her  breakfast  a  little  better,  so  that  I  could  in- 
vite a  guest  without  embarrassment.  And  now  I  am 
waiting.  .  .  , 

As  in  the  song  we  used  to  sing  in  the  convent, 

"  Midday  is  past,"  and  nothing'  has  happened. 
I  am  still  waiting  at  the  window, 
The  coming  night  makes  me  sad. 

However,  in  the  twilight  1  can  still  see  a  long  dis- 
tance, and  I  watch  without  ceasing.  How  long  the 
luncheon  seemed  to  me  !  In  spite  of  mvself,  I  could 
not  keep  my  eyes  from  the  window,  though  there  was 
no  need  for  such  haste — since  I  am  still  alone.  Doubt- 
less my  saint  prefers  the  evening  shadows,  and  is  wait- 
ing for  the  darkness  to  hide  his  face  when  he  brings  me 
my  happiness. 

He  has  until  midnight ;  it  is  his  right,  and  I  prepare 


THE    STORY  OJ'    COLETTE.  5-r 

to  watch.  A  hiig-c  los^  on  the  fire,  my  arm-chair  near 
the  window,  and  before  the  altar  the  last  candle  that  re- 
mains to  me,  a  very  little  one  !  But  to  reach  to  heaven, 
not  even  that  is  needed,  I  think  ;  and  as  for  w\\  traveler 
— it  is  enough  to  make  a  red  point  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  my  saint,  if  he  chooses,  can  easily  make  it 
shine  like  a  star. 

March  20th. 

I  am  sad,  1  am  cold,  and  even  in  my  bed  1  can  not 
get  warm  after  my  long,  cold  watch. 

It  is  late — midnight.  I  never  before  watched  so  late, 
and  at  this  hour,  in  this  perfect  calm  and  quiet,  one  feels 
one's  self  so  small,  so  insignificant ! 

Outside,  the  moon  had  risen  over  the  great  stretch 
of  whiteness,  and  made  long  lines  of  silver  light.  The 
distant  pine-trees  seemed  to  have  their  branches  fringed 
with  crystal.  But  the  hours  were  so  long !  As  the 
time  approached,  mv  heart  beat  faster,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  it  were  something  outside  of  me  wliich  made 
all  this  noise.  Then,  at  the  first  of  the  twelve  strokes, 
everything  stopped.  "  Now  or  never  !  "  I  thought,  and 
I  waited  until  the  clock  had  finished  striking,  with  my 
hands  closelv  pressed  over  mv  eyes,  waiting  until  it  was 
over,  to  look.  But  after,  as  before,  the  court  was  empty, 
the  bell  silent,  and  the  road  without  the  least  sign  of 
life! 

At  the  same  time  mv   taper  went  out,  with  a  little 

spluttering.     It  was  burned  out,  I  suppose,  but,  all  the 

same,  it  seemed  as  if  tiie  image  blew  it  out  to   show  me 

that  evervthing  was  over.     It  was  dismal.     The    heart, 

5 


58 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


however,  is  so  made  that  in  spite  of  myself  I  took  back 
my  "  never  "  of  a  little  while  ago.  It  is  not  for  now,  it 
is  true,  but  to-morrow  will  come,  and  one  does  not  hag- 
gle with  a  saint  for  a  fixed  hour  or  minute,  as  if  it  were 
an  ordinary  bargain. 

Perhaps  he  prefers  that  nine  davs  should  be  com- 
pletely finished,  and  to  give  the  reward  the  next  day. 
One  can  really  give  credit  for  twenty-four  hours. 

So  reflecting,  I  went  to  sleep,  calmly,  if  without  joy, 
and  here  I  am  again  looking  out. 

And  now,  how  will  to-day  end  ? 

March  2jd. 

How  it  ended  ?  O  Heavens  !  who  could  have  fore- 
seen such  a  thing,  and  who  could  have  thought  that  by 
a  foolish  imprudence  I  should  nearly  cause  the  death  of 
a  man  ? 

How  it  happened  I  can  hardly  remember  now,  but 
the  waiting  without  result  made  me  nervous,  I  think. 

The  hours  that  passed  bringing  me  nothing  were 
horribly  long,  and  my  hopes,  as  they  left  me,  made  me 
heart-sick. 

The  more  passionately  I  had  believed,  the  more  bit- 
ter was  the  disillusion,  and  little  by  little  an  intense 
anger  and  resentment  seized  me. 

It  was  all  a  deception  ! 

Had  I  not  prayed  with  all  m}-  heart?  Then  why 
were  the  promises  n(^t  fulfilled  ? 

I  asked  this  aloud,  begging  and  praying  before  my 
statue,  and  afterward  getting  angry  and  abusing  it. 

But,  of  course,   my  reproaches  had  no   more  effect 


TJU:    STORY   VJ-    COLETTE  eg 

than  my  prayers.  Only,  in  speaking,  I  excited  myself, 
and  I  was  angry  at  the  silence  of  the  metal,  as  if  1  could 
expect  anything  else. 

Since  I  told  my  saint  all  \w\  troubles,  and  j)romised 
him  all  that  ni}-  imagination  and  my  heart  could  suggest, 
why  did  he  remain  silent? 

When  people  are  alone  on  the  earth,  with  no  one  to 
listen  to  them,  if  they  pray  to  heaven  and  no  one  listens 
to  them  there,  what  can  they  do  ? 

And  between  each  woid  1  stopped,  I  waited,  I  gave 
him  time — and  always  the  same  silence,  and  nothing 
happened. 

Then  suddenly,  revolted,  exasperated,  in  such  a  pas- 
sion of  anger  as  I  had  never  known,  and  feeling  that  I 
had  the  right  to  revenge  myself,  1  seized  the  statue,  and 
with  all  my  strength  hurled  it  through  the  window  into 
the  road,  crying  out : 

"  You  have  deceived  me.     Go  !  " 

The  glass  that  it  had  broken  in  its  passage  fell  on  the 
floor  just  as  I  heard  a  cry  below. 

It  was  a  man,  and  his  face  was  covered  with  blood. 
My  Saint  Joseph  had  made  a  hole  in  his  forehead  above 
his  left  eye,  and,  as  he  fell  back  from  the  force  of  the 
blow,  his  feet  had  caught  in  the  stones  fallen  from  the 
wall,  and  his  knee  was  broken. 

These  last  three  nights  Benoite  and  1  have  watched 
him,  and  as  I  sit  waiting  by  his  bed  the  tears  fall. 


6o  THE   SrORY   OF  COLETTE. 


March  24th. 
The  doctor  has  been   here,  and   the   knee  has  been 
put  in  splints  ;  but  the  man's  head  is  not  clear  yet,  which 
is  a  bad  sign,  it  seems. 

We  put  ice  on  his  head  ;  there  is  plenty  of  that  here 
at  least ;  and  as  the  doctor  left  just  now,  he  said,  tap- 
ping me  on  the  shoulder : 

"  If  he  does  not  get  well,  it  will  not  be  your  fault, 
little  nurse.     Have  good  courage." 

Good  courage,  when  I  see  his  bandages  and  listen  to 
his  delirium  !  However,  I  am  glad  to  do  all  I  can,  and 
I  am  all  the  time  trving  to  think  of  something  more  I 
can  do  for  him. 

But  what  difficulties  with  my  aunt !  what  cries  and 
scenes  at  the  beginning !  At  the  moment  when  Be- 
noite  and  I,  putting  out  all  our  strength,  had  succeeded 

in  carrying  the  heavy 
weight  into  the  kitch- 
en, she  entered  by  an- 
other door. 

"  What    is   that  ?  " 
she      cried      to      me, 
throwing  up  her 
arms. 

"  A  wounded 
man,  aunt." 

And    as    I    spoke, 
we     laid     him    down 
provisionally  on  a  blanket  spread  before  the  hearth. 


THE    STORY   OF   COLKTIE.  gg 

"A  wounded  man?  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do 
with  a  wounded  man  ?     Where  did  you  find  him  ?  " 

And  as  she  multiplied  hei-  cjuestions,  Ben(jite  an- 
swered her.  without  ceasinij^  her  task: 

"  Mademoiselle  struck  him  on  the  head,  ihrowinj^- 
somethini^  out  of  the  window." 

"  But  who  is  he?  What  does  he  say?  Wiiat  does 
he  want  ?  " 

"  lie  wants  to  be  let  alone,  and  somethinjr  to  stoj> 
the  blood,"  I  could  not  help  answeiini^,  shru<^gini(  my 
shoulders. 

"  I  will  not  have  him — you  know  I  w  ill  not  have 
him  !  "  she  replied,  moving  away.  "  I  do  not  receive 
men  here." 

"  1  do  not  offer  him  to  you,"  I  replied,  more  firml}' ; 
"  it  is  mv  affair." 

"  And  what  will  vou  do  with  him  ?" 

"  1  shall  take  care  of  him,  of  course." 

"  Where,  and  with  whom  ?     Alone,  night  and  day  ?  " 

"  With  my  nurse,  and  1  will  give  him  my  room." 

"Vou  are  a  fool!"  she  said,  violentlv,  turning  her 
back  ;  "  I  can  hinder  that." 

"  How  ?  By  putting  him  out,  and  leaving  him  to  die 
in  the  darkness  ?  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  she  replied.  "  These  are  big  words  ; 
one  does  not  die  of  such  a  trifle.  In  less  than  an  hour 
you  will  see  that  the  man  himself  will  wish  to  go  awav, 
and  he  will  certainly  not  understand  xowy  lamenta- 
tions." 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  not  force  him  to  stay." 


52  THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 

"  And  if  he  remains  as  he  is,  what  do  you  expect  to 
do?" 

"  I  have  told  you  already,"  I  replied,  completely  los- 
ing patience,  and  raising  my  handkerchief  that  I  was 
holding  against  the  wound  ;  "  I  intend  to  cure  the  wound 
that  you  see  there,  and  when  it  is  healed,  and  he  is  ready 
to  go  away,  as  you  said,  I  intend  to  beg  him  with  all  my 
might  to  pardon  me  the  evil  I  have  done  him.  Do  you 
understand  ?" 

And  not  wishing  to  hear  anything  more,  or  to  add 
anything  to  this  odious  discussion,  which  I  was  afraid 
mio-ht  reach  the  ears  of  the  wounded  man,  I  sent  Benoite 
to  prepare  what  was  necessary,  while  I  remained  on  my 
knees  by  his  side,  moistening  his  forehead  with  water, 
and  waiting  with  the  greatest  anxiety  the  first  sign  of 
life. 

But  his  lips  remained  closed  and  white,  and  the  little 
stream  of  blood  continued  to  trickle  down  on  the  white 
wool,  making  a  rapidly  increasing  spot. 

My  aunt  walked  up  and  down  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room  like  a  caged  lioness,  murmuring  incessantly  the 
same  things.  Gradually  the  fear  grew  on  me  that  the 
closed  eyes  would  never  open,  and  that  I  was  bending 
over  the  forehead  of  a  dead  man,  on  which  the  mark  of 
my  hand  would  remain  forever. 

Then  all  at  once  I  saw  Benoite  run  past  and  from  the 
door-step  call  loudly  to  some  one  to  stop  ;  and  a  second 
after  the  doctor  entered  with  her. 

Certainly,  Providence  sent  him  by  our  little  road  ; 
and  my  nurse,  who  had  seen  him  from  the  window,  had 


THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE. 


63 


been  able  to  stop  him  in  time.  An  hour  later,  they  had 
together  installed  the  poor  man  in  his  bed,  dressed  his 
wounded  head,  and  brought  back,  if  not  his  intelligence, 
at  least  his  respiration,  which  was  now  casv  and  regular. 

With  the  authoi"il\-  w  liich  a  stranger  and  a  physician 
alone  could  exercise  over  my  aunt,  the  doctor,  indignant 
at  her  talk,  made  her  go  out  at  once.  When  he  took  his 
leave  she  was  still  in  the  hall  beside  me,  complaining 
and  repeating  her  rclusal  to  take  care  of  the  wounded 
man.     As  soon  as  she  saw  the  doctor  she  exclaimed  : 

"  You  know,  doctor,  this  is  wot  mv  affair  ;  1  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it !  " 

"  Quite  right,  madame,"  he  replied  brusquely  ;  "  young 
hands  are  more  gentle  and  lighter  for  dressing  wounds, 
and  a  fresh  young  face  is  good  for  the  sight  of  a  sick 
person." 

It  is  three  days  since  then.  If  the  fever  is  a  little 
less,  his  ideas  are  always  wandering. 

The  name  that  he  pronoimces  oftenest  is  that  of  a 
certain  Jacques,  and  he  makes  the  most  extraordinary 
discourses  to  him,  with  such  queer  words  that,  in  spite 
of  myself,  I  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time.  Then  he 
repeats  the  only  phrase  which  he  has  uttered  since  he 
fell.  At  the  moment  when  Benoite  and  I  ran  out.  he 
was  lying  on  the  ground,  but  not  quite  unconscious,  and 
as  I  reached  him,  crying  out,  "  Good  heavens,  sir,  what 
has  happened  ?  "  he  raised  himself  on  one  knee,  and  with 
something  of  a  smile,  if  a  man  can  smile  in  such  a  state — 

"  Ah  I  ah  !  "  he  said,  "  it  is  the  Brahman  !  " 

Then  he  fell,  and  we  carried   him   in.      I  lis   Brahman 


64  THE    SrORY   OF   COLETTE. 

has  come  back  occasionally  since  then,  and  I  can  not 
understand  what  he  means  by  it. 

We  know  nothing  at  all  as  to  who  or  what  he  is. 
The  doctor  has  inquired  at  the  village  inns  ;  no  traveler 
answering  to  his  description  had  been  seen,  and  it  looks 
as  if  he  sprang  out  of  the  earth  into  our  unlucky  road. 

His  clothes  are  elegant.  He  has  a  short,  tight-fitting 
coat  in  superb  fur ;  his  hands  are  white  ;  and  all  of  his 
face  that  the  bandage  does  not  cover  is  handsome. 

In  his  pocket,  nothing  but  a  card-case  without  ad- 
dress, and,  for  a  valise,  a  small  black  leather  bag,  which 
he  carried  on  his  back.  I  hate  the  idea  of  forcing  it  open, 
and  the  doctor  consents  to  wait  a  few  days,  hoping  that 
he  will  be  able  to  answer  for  himself. 

Benoite  makes  the  wildest  suppositions. 

"  He  is  perhaps  a  peddler,"  she  said  to  me  just  now, 
looking  at  the  odd  shape  of  his  luggage  ;  "  or  perhaps  a 
photographer.     Some  of  them  have  as  little  with  them." 

I  do  not  believe  that.  From  his  hands,  his  eyebrows, 
and  his  beard,  I  am  sure  he  may  be  a  duke  or  a  count, 
and  in  any  case  a  gentleman,  and  I  try  to  guess  his  age 
and  name. 

Is  he  handsome  ?  I  do  not  think  so,  and  I  do  not  now 
give  a  thought.  My  remorse  and  m}^  torments  occupy 
me  completely,  so  that  I  take  neither  food  nor  sleep,  and 
the  doctor  was  very  angry  at  finding  me  still  up  this 
morning. 

He  used  his  authority  to  make  me  go  down  and  walk 
in  the  court. 

But  the  air  was  too  much  for  me  ;   I  felt  ill,  and  went 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


65 


back  to  the  bedside,  determined  not  to   leave   it  again 
until  the  patient's  consciousness  should  return. 

If  I  could  hear  one  sensible  word  to  show  that  his 
head  is  all  right,  the  rest  would  be  nothing. 

March  2^th. 

He  has  spoken--it  is  accomplished!  and  1  am  so 
wild  with  happiness  that  I  should  like  to  cry  it 
aloud. 

Last  evening,  in  spite  of  being  sleepy,  I  insisted  on 
watching,  and  in  order  to  be  more  at  my  ease  than  in 
my  dresses  with  tight  sleeves  and  double  skirts,  which 
catch  upon  everything,  I  had  put  on,  in  place  of  a  dress- 
inof-irown,  the  least  faded  of  the  old  silk  dresses  that  I 
hunted  out  last  summer  in  the  store-room.  In  the  wide 
skirt,  straight  and  simple,  with  the  waist  which  seemed 
made  for  me,  I  felt  myself  so  comfortable  that,  I  hardly 
know  how  it  happened,  very  soon  I  fell  asleep  in  my 
arm-chair,  and  so  quickly  that  I  made  no  struggle  to 
keep  awake,  and  remained  so,  completely  forgetting  my 
patient,  for  perhaps  two  hours. 

Then  the  dimly  burning  lamp,  the  dying  fire,  and  the 
feeling  of  cold  and  sadness  that  always  comes  at  those 
hours,  woke  me,  and  I  ran  to  look  at  the  clock. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  the  time  would  arri\c  for 
giving  him  his  medicine.  I  had  yet  time  to  make  up 
the  fire,  for  the  room  was  getting  cold. 

I  was  on  mv  knees,  placing  a  large  stick  of  wood  on 
the  coals,  and  blowing  with  my  nnjuth  the  bits  of  dry 
moss,  when  suddenly   I   heard  a  voice  speaking  to  me. 


66  THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE. 

My  surprise  was  so  great  that  I  jumped  up  with  a  cry 
of  fright,  understanding  nothing  at  first. 

Then  immediately  I  thought  of  the  wounded  man, 
and  ran  to  the  bed.  It  was  really  he  who  called.  Rest- 
ing on  his  elbow,  his  uncovered  eye  wide  open,  and 
looking  at  me  with  intense  curiosity,  he  seemed  more 
surprised  than  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  found  him- 
self suddenly  transported  to  the  other  world,  and,  be- 
fore renewing  his  question,  he  waited  so  long,  looking 
at  me  from  head  to  foot,  that  I  was  going  to  question 
him  myself,  when,  anticipating  me,  he  broke  in : 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  hesitating,  as  if  to  see  whether 
I  would  protest,  "  I  beg  you  to  tell  me  where  I  am." 

"  In  the  Chateau  of  Erlange  de  Fond-de-Vieux,  sir," 
I  replied,  trembling  a  little. 

"  Perfectly  unknown  !  "  he  muttered.  "  Then  you 
are  the  chatelaine  ?"  he  continued,  raising  his  head. 

"  Half — yes." 

"  And,  excuse  my  stupidity,  I  beg,  madame  -,  but,  re- 
ally, I  think  I  have  lost  my  senses— what  am  I  doing 
here,  if  you  please?" 

"  Waitinsf  to  gr-et  well.  After  your  terrible  accident 
we  brought  you  in  here,  and — " 

"  Ah  !  it  was  an  accident,"  said  he ;  and  as  I  was 
about  to  say  to  him,  "  I  beg  you  to  be  sure  it  was  noth- 
ing else,"  he  continued,  always  with  the  same  calm  man- 
ner : 

"  Will  you  oblige  me,  madame,  still  further  by  telling 
me  in  what  year  we  are  ?  " 

If    I   had  not  seen  the  perfect  calm   of   his    face,  I 


"  In  1885,  sir." 


rilK    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  67 

should  have  supposed  that  he  was  again  delirious,  but 
he  spoke  with  pciiect  self-possession,  and  I  rej)lic(i  me- 
chanically : 

"  In  1885,  sir." 

"  Really  I  "  said  he  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  speakiiiij^  to 
himself ;  "  1  should  not  have  thought  it  was  the  fashion." 
Then,  without  transition  :  "  Will  it  be  possible  for  you 
to  give  me  pen  and  paper,  in  order  that  I  may  write  to 
a  friend  who  must  be  very  anxious  about  me?" 

"  M.  Jacques  ?  "  I  asked,  in  spite  of  myself. 

"  Preciselv,"  he  replied.  *'  Has  he  then  been  here, 
mad  am  c? " 

"  No,  but  in  vour  delirium — " 

"  Ah  !  1  have  been  delirious,"  said  he.  "  Hum  I  have 
1  spoken  for  young  ears?" 

And  as  I  shook  my  head  without  reflection — 

"  Yes?  Very  well,  so  much  the  better.  Frenzy  has 
then  more  good  sense  than  reason.  And  you  will  be  so 
kind,  madame,  as  to  give  me — " 

"All  vou  want  to-morrow,  it  is  night  now,  and  one 
does  not  write  at  night." 

"  Why,"  he  asked,  "  when  one  has  lamps  ?  "  And  he 
smiled  to  himself  at  what  he  said,  like  a  child. 

"  Because  the  doctor  orders  the  most  complete  calm 
and  repose  for  you,  and  he  woidd  never  forgive  me  for 
having  permitted  it,"  I  replied. 

His  eyebrows  contracted  like  those  o\.  a  j)erson  un- 
used to  resistance,  and  he  thrust  out  his  arm  so  quickly 
that,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  stepped  back.  lie  smiled 
again  then,  and,  inclining  his  head — 


68  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  and  excuse  me  for  keeping-  you 
standing-.  In  truth,  a  sick  man  is  a  poor  cavalier."  And 
with  his  finger  he  pointed  to  an  arm-chair. 

For  my  part  I  was  confounded.  This  man  awaking 
from  delirium  among  strangers,  suffering  very  much, 
who  spoke  tranquilly  on  each  subject,  in  this  half-sar- 
castic manner,  without  inquiring  what  the  accident  was 
which  had  thrown  him  into  this  bed — he  resembled 
nothing  that  I  had  ever  imagined. 

Without  sitting  down,  I  had  placed  my  hand  on  the 
back  of  the  chair,  and  stood  there  before  this  remark- 
able person,  speechless  and  in  a  maze.  Then  the  half- 
hour  struck,  and  I  remembered  his  medicine. 

"  You  must  drink  this,"  I  said,  taking  the  glass 
already  prepared  from  the  table. 

But  he  drew  back  with  a  decided  gesture  of  refusal, 
and  I  repeated  anxiously,  in  a  suppliant  tone : 

"  I  beg  you  ;  it  is  to  make  3'ou  sleep." 

"  I  know  it  very  well,"  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth  ;  "  it  is  in  the  piece  !  "  He  drank  it  without 
another  word ;  then  added,  as  Benoite,  whom  I  had 
forced  to  rest  a  little  on  her  bed,  entered  softly — "  And 
here  is  old  Francois." 

He  placed  his  head  on  the  pillow,  murmuring 
"  Thanks,"  and  ten  minutes  after  he  was  asleep,  until 
the  doctor  came,  who  is  with  him  now. 

The  doctor  is  satisfied,  or  partially  so ;  in  any  case, 
there  is  no  danger  now  of  congestion. 

(3n   the  other  hand,  the  disposition  of  our  singular 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


69 


patient  surprises  him  as  much  as  it  did  me,  and  just 
now,  in  Icavinj:^  him.  lie  \vii)cd  his  forehead  and  ex- 
claimed : 

•' What  a  willful  man  I  My  poor  child,  why  did  he 
not  stay  in  his  stupor  a  month  longer?  We  shall  ha\e 
hard  work  to  manage  him  now.  He  wanted  nothing 
less  than  to  get  up  and  travel." 

It  seems  that  as  soon  as  the  doctor  entered,  this 
morning,  he  half  sat  up  in  bed,  paying  no  UKjre  atten- 
tion to  his  splintered  leg  than  if  it  did  not  exist,  and 
began  to  thank  him  briefly  and  courteously  for  the 
attention  he  had  given  him. 

"  It  is  hardly  weather  in  which  one  ought  to  give 
the  faculty  the  trouble  of  going  about  the  countrv 
roads,"  he  said,  "  and  1  beg  you  to  accept  my  apologies." 

Then  he  began  a  series  of  questions  like  those  he  had 
addressed  to  me  in  the  night,  which  proves  that  my  an- 
swers did  not  seem  very  clear  to  him,  and  asking  them 
all  so  i-apidlv  that  the  doctor  declares  they  took  his 
breath  awav. 

Once  reassured  about  his  geographical  position, 
which  evidently  seemed  doubtful  to  him,  he  eagerly 
sought  to  learn  exactly  what  was  the  matter  with  him. 

"  I  feel  something  like  a  great  ball  there,"  he  said  to 
mc,  pointing  to  his  knee;  "what  is  it  ?  I  suppose  you 
have  not  cut  off  mv  leg  without  telling  me?  And  here 
— have  I  been  trepanned,  that  I  have  my  head  in  band- 
ages ?  " 

The  doctor  reassured  him  as  best  he  could,  but  he  is 
not  one  of  those  patients   who  is  deceived   bv   words. 


^o 


THE   STORY   OF  COLETTE. 


He  questioned  closely  why  and  how  the  thing  hap- 
pened, and  required  to  have  described  to  him  all  the 
bones  and  ligaments  injured.  After  which  he  asked  for 
a  mirror,  and  the  doctor  handed  him  one  from  his  case. 
"  This  is  a  pretty  business  !  "  he  grumbled.  "  To 
destroy  what  there  is  best  in  my  face.  But,  bah  !  a  tile 
fell  on  the  head  of  the  great  Pyrrhus  :  why  should  I  not 
perish  by  the  neck  of  a  bottle  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  question  of  perishing,"  the  doctor  re- 
plied. 

"  I  certainly  hope  not,"  he  answered.  "  1  am  still  a 
little  feeble  this  morning,  but  in  less  than  a  week  I  shall 

have  delivered  my  hostess  from 
the  inconvenient  charge  of  a 
sick  stranger.  Tell  her  so,  doc- 
tor, I  beg  you." 

And  as  the  doctor  bowed  his 
head    without    answering,    with 
a  gesture  that  clearly  signified, 
"  Go    on,   my   friend — I    do    not 
wish  to  contradict  you,  but  you 
are  talking  very  foolishly,"  the 
young  man  perceived   that  this 
manner  of  assent  was  only  a  way 
of  calming  a  feverish  person,  and  that  there  was  prob- 
ably a  very  different  idea  behind  those  large  white  eye- 
brows. 

He  began  then  to  question  the  doctor  imperiously, 
to  make  him  name  the  day  and  hour  when  he  would 
be  cured,  insisting-  that  the  truth   should   be   told  to  a 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


71 


person  of  his  age,  so  that  the  doctor  ended  by  fixing  as 
a  first  date  a  month,  reserving  to  himself  the  right  of 
adding  another  to  it  in  case  of  need. 

At  this  he  became  furious. 

"A  month!  doctor,"  he  cried — "a  month!  Vou 
want  to  keep  me  here  a  month  !  Vou  can  not  be  serious. 
I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  have  planned  quite  other  em- 
plovment  for  my  spring  than  watching  my  bones  knit. 
And  it  can  go  on  quite  as  well  somewhere  else  as  here, 
1  imajrine.  A  month !  Whv,  in  a  month  I  shall  be 
sleeping  on  a  macaw  mat,  with  six  slaves  to  fan  me,  and 
the  sky  of  India  above  my  head." 

"  Then  you  will  have  found  a  very  fast  vessel,  my 
dear  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  laughing.  "  But  let  us  reason 
a  little.  You  are  not  particularly  anxious,  I  suppose,  to 
be  lame  all  your  life  simply  for  want  of  a  few  davs' 
care  ? " 

"  Certainly  not,  for  I  make  more  use  of  my  feet  than 
most  men  ;  but,  with  my  leg  in  this  box,  what  does  it 
matter  whether  I  sleep  in  a  bed  or  a  carriage  ?  it  will  be 
kept  motionless  all  the  same." 

"  Perhaps  so,  if  you  travel  on  clouds." 

"  Even  without  that,"  he  resumed  with  vivacitv. 
"There  are  the  sleeping-cars.  No  matter  how  wild 
your  mountains  are,  I  can  certainly  find  twelve  men 
who  will  carry  me  to  the  nearest  station.  There  are 
railroads  all  the  way  to  the  sea  ;  once  there,  without  a 
movement,  on  a  lighter  and  an  inclined  plane  such  as 
are  used  for  heavy  freight,  I  can  get  on  board,  where  1 
shall  have  all  the  time  my  bones  need  to  mend." 


y2  THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 

"  Is  it  for  an  important  affair?"  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Simply  for  ray  own  pleasure,  and  because  1  wish 
it." 

On  this,  without  a  word,  the  doctor  put  on  his  hat 
and  took  his  overcoat  from  the  chair  where  it  was  dry- 
ing before  the  fire ;  but  when  the  sick  man  saw  him 
ready  to  leave  he  became  so  violently  agitated  that  the 
good  doctor  approached  the  bed. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  know  who  is  going  to 
keep  me  from  doing  what  I  like,"  said  the  stranger, 
growing  still  more  agitated. 

"On  my  word,  my  dear  sir,  I  am,"  replied  the 
doctor,  putting  down  his  hat  and  reseating  himself 
quietly.  "  Let  us  understand  each  other  once  for  all, 
and,  as  you  like  plain  dealing,  let  us  have  it. 

"  First,  let  me  tell  you  that  3'our  knee,  and  you  your- 
self, might  have  been  of  no  consequence  to  me,  and  I 
beg  you  to  believe  that,  had  the  circumstances  been 
different,  if  you  did  not  care  that  your  broken  bones 
should  knit.  I  should  leave  you  to  fall  to  pieces  with 
the  best  grace  in  the  world.  But  at  present  I  am 
your  physician,  and  that  changes  the  case  completely. 
Have  you  been  a  soldier,  my  dear  sir  ?  I  do  not  know, 
but  it  is  probable ;  in  any  case,  you  know  what  the 
army  is  and  what  makes  its  force — I  mean  obedience 
to  orders.  A  soldier  is  placed  at  a  post,  with  orders 
to  let  no  one  pass.  Why  ?  Wherefore  ?  In  whose 
name?  He  knows  nothing  at  all;  but  in  the  name  of 
this  order  he  will  lower  his  bayonet  against  friend 
or  foe. 


rilE   STOKY   OF  COLE  TIE. 


71 


"With  us  it  is  much  the  same  case.  I  see  you  on  a 
road,  I  do  not  know  you,  you  are  nothing  to  me,  and  1 
would  not  put  the  least  obstacle  in  your  way.  But  a 
fall,  a  wound,  something  knocks  you  down,  and  you  be- 
long to  me;  I  return  and  pick  you  up,  and  carry  you 
off,  and  I  must  answer  for  you  as  the  soldier  does  the 
door  that  he  guards.  Try  to  pass  this  door,  and  I 
lower  my  pike,  I  warn  you  !  " 

"  Doctor,"  the  young  man  replied  at  once,  stretching 
out  his  hand,  "  pardon  me,  and  rest  assured  that  1  con- 
sider myself  a  prisoner  on  parole.  You  must  not  ex- 
cuse me  by  thinking  that  illness  makes  me  ill-tempered, 
for  I  am  always  just  as  you  see  me  ;  but  I  confess  that, 
obstinate  as  I  am,  if  I  am  struck  hard  and  in  the  right 
place,  I  yield." 

"  When  one  is  warned,  it  is  sufficient,"  replied  the 
good  doctor.  And  he  left  his  troublesome  patient,  with 
the  desired  writing  materials. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  passport  of  our  stranger  has 
told  us  ai)proximately  who  he  is. 

His  name  is  Count  Pierre  de  Civreuse,  and,  as  nearly 
as  one  can  judge  at  first  sight,  the  doctor  tells  me,  his 
profession  is  to  do  foolish  things.  He  is  a  gentleman — 
the  doctor  agrees — and  evidently  of  an  uncommon  char- 
acter. 

The  doctor  then  told  him  my  aunt's  name  and  mine, 
so  we  are  introduced  to  each  other;  but  the  doctor 
said  nothing  yet  about  the  real  cause  of  the  accident, 
being  apprehensive  on  account  of  the  irritability  of  our 
patient,   and    this   is   an    immense    relief   to   me.      This 


74  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

stranger  frightens  me  more  and  more,  and  I  do  not  see 
how  I  can  endure  any  explanation  with  him. 

Benoite,  who  has  been  arranging  his  room,  tells  me 
that  he  is  still  writing,  and  I  will 
leave  him  in  peace  with  his  friend 
Jacques,  though  I  am  anxious  to 
know  how  this  will  end,  and  how 
I  can  ever  tell  him  the  truth,  and 
obtain  the  pardon  of  such  an  un- 
manageable person. 


Pierre  de  Civreiisc  to  Jacques  de  Colonges. 

You  have  thought  me  dead,  my  good  fellow,  have 
you  not? — and  I  can  tell  you  that  for  some  days  I 
thought  so  too. 

For  I  do  not  know  how  many  hours  I  was  buried,  I 
do  not  know  where.  Doubtless,  where  all  unconscious 
souls  go ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  so  far  underground  and 
so  heavy  that,  with  my  little  remaining  resolution.  I 
kept  trying  to  force  open  the  planks  of  my  coffin 
with  my  shoulder.  Certainly,  at  that  distance,  one  has 
taken  half  of  the  final  journey,  and  reached  the  place 
where  the  smallest  grain  of  weight  \vill  turn  the  bal- 
ance. 

Happily  for  me,  I  have  swung  over  to  the  good  side, 
humanly  speaking,  you  understand,  and  I  woke  up  one 
fine  evening  rather  bruised  by  my  fall ;  but  one  does  not 
fall  such  a  distance  without  perceiving  the  effect,  espe- 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  75 

cially  when  one's  knee  is  well  packed  in  a  pine-wood 
box,  and  one's  head  in  bandages. 

Midnight  was  striking  on  a  clock,  the  favorite  hour 
for  those  who  come  back  from  beyond  the  grave,  and 
that  was  the  first  material  thing  of  which  1  became  con- 
scious. 

If  I  have  not  completely  forgotten  what  happens  in 
the  world,  I  said  to  myself,  these  little  machines  never 
strike  more  than  twelve  times ;  if  this  one  does  not  ex- 
ceed the  number,  it  proves  that  I  am  on  the  earth,  and 
quite  alive. 

And  it  did  not ;  and,  sure  of  my  identity,  I  opened 
my  eyes  to  look  about  me. 

My  friend,  do  you  know  "  La  Fee  "  of  Octave  Feuil- 
let — a  charming  little  piece  which  is  often  played — and 
have  you  seen  it?  Well,  that  evening — it  was  yester- 
day, I  think — I  woke  up  in  the  first  act  of  "  La  F^e," 
and  I  made  the  responses  to  Mademoiselle  d'Athol  in 
person,  during  one  or  two  acts.  Do  not  imagine  that  I 
am  joking — listen. 

The  first  thing  that  a  sick  man  thinks  of  examining 
is  his  bed.  Mine  had  twisted  columns  hung  with  Louis 
XIII  or  Louis  XIV  taj)estrv — I  will  not  swear  which — 
and  a  spread  in  silk,  which  we  will  call  curtain,  if  vou 
are  willing.  The  room  in  which  I  lay  was  verv  large, 
dimly  lighted  bv  two  yellow^ish  candles  placed  in  huge 
candlesticks ;  it  was  paneled  with  carved  oak,  and  one 
guessed,  rather  than  saw,  high,  high  up,  the  beams  of 
the  ceiling,  i)ickcd  out  with  a  narrow  band  of  gold 
which  shone  from  place  to  place. 


76  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

Against  the  wall  stood  stiff  sofas,  which  made  my 
back  ache  onl)'^  to  look  at ;  there  was  a  collection  of 
prie-dicii  all  alike,  arranged  in  a  row,  as  if  for  matins ; 
and  the  floor  was  without  the  shadow  of  a  carpet. 

Finally,  before  the  chimney,  in  an  arm-chair — you 
guessed  that  I  was  keeping  this  chair  for  the  end,  did 
you  not? — a  little  lady,  slight,  elegant,  and  blonde, 
was  sleeping  quite  erect  in  a  dress  of  pink  satin,  with  a 
long,  pointed  waist.  Her  dress  was  at  least  two  hun- 
dred years  old  ;  her  face,  eighteen — how  to  make  them 
agree  ?  I  worked  at  this  problem  so  long  that  the  little 
lady  awoke  suddenly,  without  preliminary  movements. 

She  threw  a  glance  toward  my  bed,  like  a  pupil 
caught  in  a  fault ;  in  the  shadow  I  seemed  to  be  sleep- 
ing soundly,  I  think,  and,  reassured  on  this  point,  like  a 
faithful  vestal  she  gave  her  attention  to  the  fire. 

She  bends  down,  arranges  the  coals,  blows  with  all 
her  might,  scattering  the  ashes  in  her  hair ;  then  with 
her  hands  she  takes  a  great  log,  the  fourth  of  a  moder- 
ate-sized oak,  and  places  it  promptly  on  the  hearth. 

She  moves,  she  lives,  so  that  the  idea  of  a  chatelaine 
of  ancient  days  petrified  in  her  nest  by  some  enchant- 
ment leaves  me,  and  it  is  at  this  moment  that  I  see 
myself  in  the  chateau  in  Brittany,  where  Jeanne  Athol 
is  preparing  her  pious  subterfuges,  and  converting  the 
skeptical  De  Comminges  solely  by  the  charm  of  her 
grandmother's  dress  and  her  old-fashioned  speech.  Only, 
this  time  she  had  forgotten  her  powder,  and  the  color 
of  her  hair  destroyed  the  illusion.  I  call  her  as  gently 
as   I   can ;    she   jumps  up,   crying  out.      Evidently   my 


THE   SrOKY  OF  COLETTE. 


77 


awakening  was  not  in  the  programme,  and  she  is  much 
startled.  However,  she  approaches,  and  we  converse  a 
moment,  going  from  blunder  to  blunder,  she  willfully 
misleading  me;  I  showing  clearly  that  I  understand  the 
part  she  is  playing.  At  last  she  gets  rid  of  me,  in  the 
usual  way,  with  a  narcotic,  which  sends  me  to  sleep  ; 
not  too  quickly,  however,  for  me  to  see  the  third  person, 
an  old  duenna,  wrinkled  like  a  last  year's  apple,  with 
small  bright  eyes,  which  seem  to  look  through  you,  and 
who  will  j)lay  perfectly  the  part  of  old  Frangois;  then 
the  curtain  falls,  and  I  wake  up  the  next  morning,  still 
among  the  same  surroundings,  but  beside  me  is  a  witty 
and  capricious  doctor,  who  in  two  words  explains  my 
case  to  me,  and  who,  when  I  try  to  revolt,  reduces  me 
to  order  so  quickly  that  I  am  still  a  little  stupefied  by  it. 

If  you  wish  to  know  the  whole  truth,  m}-  friend,  my 
head  is  cut  open  and  my  leg  broken.  Would  you  have 
believed  that  these  were  such  fragile  things?  I  should 
not,  and  I  touch  myself  now  with  the  greatest  tender- 
ness and  respect. 

Is  it  conceivable  that  between  the  fibula  and  tibia 
such  a  violent  disagreement  can  be  produced  ?  Splin- 
ters in  one  place,  broken  bones  in  another,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  all  a  knee-pan  out  of  place,  like  a  compass  that 
has  lost  the  north  and  can  not  get  back  to  it.  As  to  mv 
skull,  it  is  the  sinus  frontalis  which  is  injured,  but  I  am 
promised  that  in  a  few  days  it  will  be  solidly  mended. 

On  the  whole  I  joke,  but  I  am  furious  as  I  know  how 
to  be  in  my  best  moments,  and  the  thought  of  the  task 
which  will  keep  you  at  your  uncle's  some  months  adds 


78  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

not  a  little  to  my  annoyance.  Weeks  of  immobility, 
without  you  to  keep  me  company  !  Can  you  imagine 
me,  with  my  little  lady  in  pink  as  sole  resource,  under 
six  feet  of  snow?  For  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that,  like  the 
wheat  sown  in  autumn,  we  are  really  under  the  snow  ; 
it  is  only  necessary  for  us  to  germinate,  and,  to  come 
here  to  take  care  of  me,  my  doctor  has  to  wear  alter- 
nately seven-league  boots  and  Norwegian  skates. 

Now,  as  to  the  cause,  I  hear  you  asking,  and  what 
the  devil  are  you  doing  in  such  a  place  ? 

Here  is  the  reason :  You  may  remember  that  I  in- 
tended, before  going  to  the  country  of  the  sun,  to  come 
and  freeze  myself  and  see  a  real  winter — as  gourmands 
prepare  for  a  good  dinner  by  fasting  and  open-air  exer- 
cise. 

For  this  purpose  I  stopped  at  a  little  village  whose 
name  you  would  not  recognize,  for  you  do  not  know  it 
any  more  than  I  knew  it  yesterday,  and,  carrying  a  kind 
of  haversack,  I  went  off  on  foot  among  the  mountains. 

I  made  inquiries  about  my  route,  to  this  extent  that 
I  knew  that  if  I  walked  straight  ahead  I  ought  to  come 
to  an  elevation,  whence  I  should  have  a  superb  view — a 
pine-forest,  a  vista  opening  on  a  valley,  and  even  a 
chateau. 

At  the  end  of  five  hundred  yards  1  was  in  complete 
solitude,  and,  if  3^ou  have  never  happened  to  wander 
about  the  country  at  this  season  of  the  year,  you  can  not 
imagine  how  much  more  complete  this  solitude  is  than 
any  other.  Wherever  one  places  his  foot,  there  are  no 
other  foot-prints,  there  is  no  sound  of  animals — every- 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


79 


,-sr 


where  a  brilliant  uniformity,  which  is  admirable  during 
the  first  half-hour,  fatiguing-  during  the  second,  and 
enervating  and  blinding  during  the  third. 

No  more  inequalities  of  ground,  no  more  hollows 
or  hillocks ;  everything  is  level, 
a  republican  equality.     At   dis- 
tant intervals  a  band  of  ravens 
swoop  down   with   the   insolent 
cries  of   the   last  survivors. 
It   is  their    hour,   and    they 
know    it.     There   are  snow 
on  the  bushes  and  tears  of 
clear    frost.       The    dew    is 
three    months   old,  and 
will  last  several  weeks 
longer   before   it   evap- 
orates ;  and   a  frightful 
north    wind    seems    to 
cut  one's  face  to  pieces. 

However,  the  longest  road 
has  an  end,  and  I  found  successively  the  vista  of  the 
valley,  the  forest,  and  the  fine  view  promised,  when  the 
chateau  itself  appeared  to  me.  I  spare  you  its  descrip- 
tion, having  seen  it  myself  very  imperfectly,  as  you  will 
soon  perceive. 

One  of  the  wings  opens  on  the  road.  It  was  before 
this  one  that  I  stopped,  and  innocently  occupied  myself 
in  brushing  the  snow  ofT  a  large  stone,  so  as  to  sit  down 
and  look  abdut  me  at  mv  leisure,  impressed  as  I  was  bv 
the  savage  melancholv  of  the  place. 


8o  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

A  singular  curiosity  seized  me.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  behind  these  walls  something  original  and  unex- 
pected must  be  concealed,  and  I  was  suddenly  stung 
by  a  strong  desire  to  penetrate  them.  You  will  remem- 
ber, besides,  that  anything  concealed  and  inaccessible 
has  always  tempted  me,  and  I  can  not  remember,  as  a 
boy,  ever  to  have  stolen  an  apple  off  the  lower  branch- 
es.    Of  the  high  ones  I  will  not  say  as  much. 

At  the  same  time,  the  remembrance  of  our  last  con- 
versation came  back  to  me.  Do  you  remember  the 
evening  when  we  were  talking  together  of  my  journey, 
and  you  were  preaching  prudence  to  me  ?  "  Once  in 
India,"  I  told  you,  "  I  mean  to  see  everything,  especially 
the  things  which  are  concealed  from  European  eyes.  I 
mean  to  get  into  the  family  life  and  all  the  private  rites 
and  ceremonies,  to  know  the  habits  that  are  curious 
or  ignoble,  and  to  learn  all  the  mysteries  of  their  wor- 
ship, even  if  I  have  to  assume  twenty  disguises  to  arrive 
at  the  feet  of  Brahma  and  adore  him  unveiled  and 
according  to  the  rites."  And  you — you  replied  pru- 
dently :  "  Beware  !  every  man  is  jealous  of  his  secret 
and  the  inviolability  of  his  fireside,  but  the  Oriental 
more  than  any  other,  and,  for  the  pleasure  of  walking 
where  no  other  man  has  trod,  you  risk  some  great  mis- 
fortune." 

"From  whom?"  I  asked  you,  laughing.  "Do  you 
think  the  god  will  disturb  himself  for  me ;  and  shall  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  put  his  eighteen  legs  in 
motion  to  get  down  from  his  pedestal  ?  " 

"  Not  the  god,  perhaps,  but  one  of  his  worshipers 


THE   STORY   OF  COLETTE.  gl 

without  compunction  ;  and  if  you  penetrate  the  sacred 
inclosure  you  may  very  possibly  meet  some  Brahman 
who  will  not  hesitate  to  take  strong  measures  to  force 
you  to  respect  the  consecrated  limits." 

Why  was  I  thinkint^  of  all  this  at  that  moment? 
Was  it  because  I  wondered  if  the  susceptibility  of 
Frenchmen  would  be  as  quickly  aroused  as  that  of 
Indians  ?  or  that  unconsciously  I  was  measuring  with 
my  eye  the  height  of  the  walls  and  looking  for  a  pro- 
jection on  which  to  j)lace  my  foot?  I  can  not  say; 
but  just  at  this  instant  a  great  noise  of  broken  glass 
made  me  raise  ni}^  head,  and,  before  I  could  speak,  a 
projectile  whose  nature  I  do  not  know  was  thrown  at 
me  by  a  sure  hand,  striking  me  full  in  the  forehead. 
The  blow  was  so  violent  that  it  made  me  stagger,  and, 
catching  my  feet  among  the  stones,  I  fell  on  one  knee 
with  my  whole  weight,  without  being  able  to  save  my- 
self, and  so  awkwardly  that  the  wounds  I  have  told  you 
of  are  the  result. 

Could  one's  indiscretion  be  more  promptly  punished, 
or  the  results  you  foresaw  have  been  more  quickly  at- 
tained, than  this  crushing  of  my  curiosity  in  the  bud, 
and  this  finding  your  Brahman  at  the  third  degree  of 
longitude  ? 

Some  one  ran  out  frightened,  with  confused  excla- 
mations ;  but  I  would  have  sworn  that  a  thick  fog  had 
suddenly  risen  from  the  ground,  for  I  distinguished 
nothing  more,  and  must  have  lost  consciousness  at 
once. 

I  have  no  remembrance  of   the  first  attentions  that 


82  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

were  given  to  me,  and  my  sleep  in  the  other  world 
lasted,  it  appears,  four  whole  days. 

As  to  the  author  of  my  wound  and  the  instrument 
of  my  punishment,  all  around  me  express  themselves 
so  vaguely  that  I  am  reduced  to  drawing  my  own 
conclusions;  but  when  I  see  my  little  pink  lady,  or  even 
the  old  woman  with  the  bright  eyes,  I  intend  to  find 
out. 

In  the  mean  while  I  have  learned  the  name  of  the 
manor :  it  is  the  chateau  of  Erlange  de  Fond-de-Vicux, 
and  you  can  direct  your  letters  to  me  here. 

The  postman  comes  up  here  from  time  to  time — 
always,  in  fact,  when  the  package  of  letters  for  the 
neighboring  village  seems  to  him  large  enough,  or 
when  he  is  intrusted  by  the  butcher  or  grocer  with 
some  commission  which  seems  to  him  worth  the  trouble. 

It  is  inhabited  by  only  two  women — jNIademoiselle 
d'Epine  and  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange — who  are  aunt  and 
niece  ;  and  when  I  hinted  to  the  doctor  that  I  might 
be  an  embarrassment  to  them  in  more  than  one  way,  he 
denied  it  with  so  much  good  nature,  that  I  could  only 
put  my  scruples  aside,  and  accept  their  hospitality. 

By-the-way,  did  I  tell  you  that  the  doctor  speaks  of 
a  month  without  moving,  which  in  the  mouth  of  a  doctor 
means  double  that,  and  that  he  insists  that  I  shall  lie  Hat 
on  my  back  ? 

This  idea  made  me  furious,  and  when  I  think  that, 
for  a  platonic  contemplation  of  a  wall— a  contemplation 
which  lasted  in  all  ten  minutes,  and  which  was,  after  all, 
perfectly  harmless — I  have  to  pass  weeks  with  no  societ)- 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


83 


but  two  women,  when  I  might  be  hunting  tigers  in  the 
jungle,  I  am  ready  to  lose  all  my  remaining  calmness  ! 

"  But  since  you  are  in  the  place  that  you  were  so 
ready  to  enter,  of  what  do  you  complain  ?  "  you  will 
say. 

Exactl}',  my  dear  friend,  it  is  because  I  am  here  that 
I  now  want  to  go  out ;  I  have  seen  all  there  is  to  see, 
and  there  is  not  enough  to  divert  an  octogenarian. 

But  hush,  Jacques  !  Some  one  is  knocking  at  the 
door,  and  it  is  a  gentle  tap,  that  can  only  come  from 
delicate  fingers.  Get  down  behind  the  bed,  m}^  friend 
— be  sure  that  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  presently. 

March  2^th. 

After  the  doctor  left  yesterday,  I  waited  a  long  time 
before  going  back  to  the  room  of  Monsieur  de  Civreuse, 
wishing  to  leave  him  free  to  write  to  his  friend,  and 
finally  I  did  not  know  how  to  manage  about  going  in. 
To  knock  and  go  in  and  sit  down  in  my  usual  place, 
would  be  to  force  him  to  talk  to  me  ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  could  not  leave  him  entirely  alone,  as  he  might 
want  something. 

I  would  have  sent  Benoite  ;  but  mv  aunt,  who  pre- 
tends to  be  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  the  wounded 
man,  has  given  her  all  sorts  of  extra  work  these  last  few 
days,  and  keeps  her  in  her  room  under  the  pretext  of 
having  the  curtains  beaten. 

At  last  I  had  an  idea,  and,  calling  my  dog,  I  made 
him  understand  gently  what  I  expected  of  him,  and 
where  he  was  to  carry  the  paper  that  I  attached  to  his 


84  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

collar.     Then   I   knocked  softly   at  the  door,  and  drew 
back  to  let  him  in. 

On  the  paper  I  had  written  :  "  Monsieur  de  Civreuse 
is  begged  to  say  whether  he  wishes  to  stay  alone,  or  if 
he  needs  anything.  The  dog  will  bring  back  the  answer, 
or  will  wait  for  it  as  long  as  is  desired  ;  it  is  only  neces- 
sary to  say  to  him,  '  Go.'  " 

After  a  few  moments  I  heard  "  One  "  scratchinsf  at 
the  door,  and  in  his  collar  was  my  note,  on  the  back 
of  which  was  written  :  "  Monsieur  de  Civreuse  hardly 
dares  confess  he  is  d^'ing  of  hunger  and  thirst,  and  that 
in  jumping  up  just  now  to  hold  up  his  neck  the  faithful 
messenger  knocked  over  the  table  with  the  ink-stand. 
He  is  full  of  regret  at  being  unable  to  pick  them  up  him- 
self." 

I  went  in  at  once,  and  quicklv  righted  the  table  and 
wiped  up  the  ink  as  well  as  I  could,  while  Monsieur  de 
Civreuse  said  interrogatively  :  "  Mademoiselle  d'Epine  ? 
Mademoiselle  d'Erlange?"  "Mile.  d'Erlange,"  I  an- 
swered quickly,  not  in  the  least  pleased  at  the  confusion. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  ;  "  there  are  aunts  of 
all  ages."  Then,  as  I  rubbed  the  floor  with  mv  foot,  he 
began  to  excuse  himself  for  the  harm  he  had  done,  but  I 
reassured  him  at  once,  telling  him  I  did  not  mind  a  spot 
in  the  least,  if  it  is  not  on  me — which  is  the  simple 
truth. 

I  asked  him  if  he  wanted  any  particular  thing  to  cat, 
but  warned  him  that  the  larder  of  Erlangre  is  rustic ;  and 
he  replied  that,  as  he  was  preparing  to  undertake  a  jour- 
ney in  countries  where  he  might  not  be  able  to  find  food 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


85 


every  day,  he  should  be  only  too  happy  to  dine  regularly, 
no  matter  on  what. 

I  succeeded  in  getting  Benoite  away  from  my  aunt 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  bring  some  food,  and  when 
she  was  gone  I  finished  helping  him — pouring  out  the 
wine,  cutting  the  bread,  etc.  While  he  was  eating, 
which  he  did  with  a  good  appetite.  Monsieur  de  Civreuse 
asked  me  several  questions  in  his  cold  and  indifferent 
tone,  which  not  only  frightens  me,  but  makes  me  answer 
all  wrong,  I  suppose,  for  he  looks  at  me,  from  time  to 
time,  as  if  I  had  said  the  most  stupid  thing  in  the  world. 
After  a  little  while  I  began  to  make  his  coffee. 

Benoite  had  left  the  coffee,  and  water  boiling  on  the 
coal,  and  had  instructed  me  what  to  do ;  but,  alas  !  it  is 
such  a  new  business  for  me,  that  when  I  was  ready  to 
begin  I  could  not  remember  a  word  of  what  she  had 
told  me,  and  I  was  on  my  knees  before  the  fire,  the 
kettle  in  one  hand  and  the  coffee  in  the  other,  in  terrible 
perplexity. 

I  knew  very  well  that  I  had  to  put  one  in  the  other, 
but  which  must  I  begin  with,  and  how  was  I  to  mix 
them  ? 

To  pour  the  water  into  the  wooden  box  seemed  to 
me  queer  ;  it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  I  ought  to 
pour  the  coffee  into  the  kettle.  If  I  went  to  ask  Benoite, 
I  should  have  to  endure  an  hour  of  cries  and  reproaches 
from  my  aunt  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand.  Monsieur  de 
Civreuse  from  his  bed  watched  me  with  his  eye  with  a 
quiet  curiosity  that  exasperated  me.  I  decided  suddenly, 
and  emptied  the  box  of  coffee  into  the  water,  and  put 


86 


THE    STONY  OF  COLETTE. 


the   whole   on    the   fire,   and   allowed    it   to   boil    a   mo- 
ment. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  help  you?  "  I  asked  as  I  ap- 
proached him. 

"  With  pleasure,"  he  replied  calmly,  holding  out  his 
cup. 

Alas  !  it  was  like  mud — black,  thick,  and  horrible- 
looking,  and  settled  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup  in  a  most 
untempting  manner. 

I  stopped,  very  much  embarrassed,  exclaiming: 
"  It  is  not  right ;  I  must  have  made  a  mistake,  but  I 
do  not  know  how  to  make  coffee." 

"  Nor  I  either,"  Monsieur  Pierre  replied,  still  hold- 
ing his  cup  ;  "  only,  I  think  they  generally  make  use  of 

that,"  and  he  pointed 
with  his  finger  to  the 
coffee-pot,  which  Be- 
noite  had  placed  on 
the  table,  and  which  I 
had  quite  forgotten  ; 
and  when  I  asked  him 
quickly  why  he  had 
not  told  mc,  he  re- 
plied : 

"  1      thought      vou 

were  making  it  in  the  Turkish 

fashion." 

Finally,    I    strained    a    cupful    for    him    through    a 

square   of   muslin,   and    he   drank    it   all    up    without   a 

word. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  8/ 

"  So  jou  have  resumed  your  true  form,"  he  said,  as 
I  took  my  usual  place  in  my  arm-chair. 

"  My  true  form  ?     But  I  am  always  like  this." 

"  Not  last  night." 

"  Oh  !  because  I  had  put  on  that  old-fashioned  dress  ! 
The  fact  is,  I  must  have  looked  strange,  and  I  wonder 
what  you  thought  when  you  saw  me." 

"  I  thought  I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  a 
place  where  Time  had  stopped  his  clock,  and  had  not 
wound  it  up  for  two  hundred  years." 

"  Why  the  good  fortune  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  nothing  so  inane  as  the  present 
age,"  he  said. 

"  I  could  tell  you  something  more  inane  still,"  I  re- 
plied quickly.  "  It  is  not  to  know  the  present  age  at  all, 
and  that  is  my  case." 

"  Do  not  alarm  yourself ;  you  resemble  it  much  more 
than  you  suppose,"  said  he.  Then,  thinking  that,  after 
all,  the  phrase  was  not  very  polite,  he  went  on  hastily, 
before  I  could  say  a  word  : 

"  And  your  dog,  mademoiselle.  Why  have  you  left 
him  outside  ?     Not  on  my  account,  I  hope." 

"  I  was  afraid  he  might  tire  you,"  and,  as  he  shook 
his  head,  I  ran  to  open  the  door,  and  that  foolish  "  One  " 
came  in  with  a  bound,  rolling  over  on  my  feet,  resting 
his  nose  on  my  knees,  and  nearly  knocking  me  over  in 
the  ardor  of  his  caresses. 

Monsieur  de  Civreuse  watched  him  without  a  word, 
and  when  I  kneeled  down  in  front  of  him  to  put  his 
paws  around  my  neck — 


88  THE   STORY  OF   COLETTE. 

"  You  love  him  very  much?"  he  asked. 

"  Infinitely,"  1  replied,  fervently.  "  My  poor  old 
nurse  first,  and  him  next :  those  arc  my  two  best 
friends." 

"  And  the  aunt  comes  third  ?  "  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
more  to  himself  than  to  me,  I  think.  I  muttered  in  the 
same  tone : 

"  Not  even  that."  But  he  did  not  hear,  I  sui)pose  ; 
and  1  got  up  to  clear  off  the  table. 

After  a  moment  he  asked  me  what  time  it  was,  and 
when  I  had  told  him,  I  could  not  help  adding: 

"  I  am  afraid  that  the  days  will  seem  very  long  to 
you,  and  that  you  will  be  much  bored  in  a  little  while." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  of  myself  that  I  think ;  it  was  for  you 
that  I  am  anxious.  What  a  load,  what  a  responsibility, 
to  have  a  helpless  stranger  suddenly  thrust  on  your 
hands,  and  what  a  great  deal  of  trouble  it  will  give 
you  !  " 

He  was  beginning  a  long  phrase  of  thanks,  when  I 
interrupted  him  quickly  : 

"  Do  not  think  that ;  it  is  exactly  the  contrary.  I  am 
so  glad  !  it  amuses  me  very  much." 

I  thought  of  my  solitude  in  speaking  thus,  and  the 
delight  of  leading  a  busy  life  for  at  least  two  months  ; 
but  he  took  it  in  another  sense,  I  suppose,  for,  shutting 
his  lips,  and  inclining  his  head  ceremoniously,  he  con- 
tinued  : 

"  Ah  !  so  much  the  better  ;  misfortune  has  its  com- 
pensations, and  I  am  delighted  that  some  one  benefits 
by  my  accident." 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


89 


Benoite  came  in  just  then,  and  I  took  the  opportu- 
nity to  slip  out,  for  I  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

On  the  whole,  this  gentleman  does  not  please  me  at 
all,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  passionate  desire  I  have  to 
obtain  his  pardon,  and  to  make  him  gradually  forget  my 
deplorable  violence,  I  would  take  an  immense  dislike  to 
him  immediately,  and  show  it  to  him  pretty  clearly. 

His  imperturbable  calm  seems  to  me  like  a  bridle  to 
check  my  vivacity — as  if  it  were  his  business !  and  his 
mocking  eye,  which  watches  all  I  do,  gives  me  a  wild 
desire  to  be  impertinent.  Once  his  bandage  off,  and 
two  eyes  watching  me,  it  will  be  unbearable  ;  I  seem  to 
feel  them  on  me  now,  through  the  door. 


Pierre  to  Jacques. 

My  friend,  I  have  learned  the  whole  truth,  for  I 
manoeuvred  so  skillfully  during  a  tete-a-tete  that  I  had  by 
chance  with  Benoite,  the  faithful  guardian  of  Mile.  d'Er- 
lange,  that  I  made  her  tell  me  all  that  the  doctor 
thought  best  to  conceal. 

To  begin,  I  left  you,  I  think,  watching  behind  the 
curtain  for  the  entrance  of  my  blonde  fairy  of  last  night, 
and  curious  to  see  her  by  day. 

Well,  my  friend,  you  may  believe  me  or  not,  as  you 
like,  but  the  magic  went  on,  and  she  came  this  time 
under  the  familiar  and  pleasing  form  of  a  huge,  curly 
Newfoundland  dog. 

The  intelligent  animal  marched  directly  to  my  bed, 


go  THE   STORY   OF  COLETTE. 

and,  raising  himself  on  his  hind-legs  with  the  grace  of 
the  elephants  in  the  hippodrome,  bent  his  head  to  show 
me  a  little  white  paper  attached  to  his  collar:  "And 
then  the  beautiful  princess  dispatched  him,  a  messenger 
under  the  form  of  a  hippogriflf  with  three  heads,  who 
should,  with  many  details,  declare  to  him  her  will." 

The  "  will "  in  this  case  was  drawn  up  in  simple 
style,  and  in  substance  was  as  follows :  "  What  does 
Monsieur  de  Civreuse  need  most?"  The  writing  was 
as  irregular  as  the  branches  of  a  willow-tree  in  a  high 
wind,  wandering  all  over  the  little  square  of  paper,  and 
the  last  words,  being  crowded,  literally  were  piled  one 
on  top  of  the  other. 

Instantly  I  augured  ill  of  its  author.  A  woman 
need  not  write  at  all,  but  if  she  does,  it  should  be  well 
done,  so  that  the  traces  of  her  pen  should  not  be  like 
the  fantastic  wanderings  of  a  beetle.  It  is  a  prejudice 
I  have,  and  affects  me  in  the  same  way  as  if  I  should 
see  a  marquise  draw  out  of  her  pocket  a  coarse,  cotton 
handkerchief,  or  use  patchouly  as  a  perfume. 

But,  as  it  was  hardly  the  time  for  philosophical  re- 
flections, and  the  dog,  with  his  neck  stretched  out,  was 
still  waiting  for  his  answer,  I  resolved  to  confess  frankly 
that  I  was  hungry,  and  that  my  strongest  wish  at  that 
moment  was  to  have  something  to  eat.  This  was  not 
sentimental — far  from  it ;  but  to  a  woman  who  does  not 
know  how  to  write  !  Then,  as  I  bent  down  to  tie  the 
ribbon  to  the  collar,  the  dog  made  a  movement,  and, 
with  the  touch  of  his  shoulder,  threw  the  table,  ink- 
stand, and  all  the  rest  on  the  floor.     Rather  abashed,  I 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


91 


added  a  postscript  to  announce  the  misfortune,  and  a 
minute  after  my  young  guardian  of  last  night  entered. 

She  was  dressed  this  time  like  everybody  else,  and, 
with  her  hair  coiled  high,  she  resembled  in  such  a 
ridiculous  way  all  other  women,  that  she  made  me  think 
of  a  portrait  by  Velasquez,  that  had  been  restored  by 
replacing  a  child's  head  with  that  of  an  honest  Bur- 
gundian  peasant-woman.  Is  it  possible  to  have  under 
one's  hand  so  much  local  coloring  and  not  to  make  use 
of  it? 

Quite  indifferent  to  the  effect  she  produced  on  me, 
she  repaired  the  disorder  without  speaking.  She 
picked  up  the  table,  wiped  the  ink,  and  rubbed  her 
cloth  over  the  floor  with  the  point  of  her  foot. 

I  tried  at  first  to  excuse  myself  very  humbly,  but  at 
the  first  woi'd  she  stopped  me,  saying :  "  Oh,  do  not 
worry ;  I  do  not  mind  spots  in  the  least !  "  so  I  let  her 
alone.  After  that  she  went  to  see  about  food,  and  I  was 
left  to  my  thoughts. 

My  dear  fellow,  this  young  girl  already  displeases 
me  ver}^  decidedly.  Her  appearance  is  of  a  piece  with 
her  writing,  and  this  last  phrase  decided  me.  To  me, 
also,  spots  are  nothing,  and  I  have  seen  rivulets  of  ink 
spilled,  looking  calmly  on ;  but  from  her  the  words 
shocked  me. 

The  thing  that  I  dislike  above  all  is  to  find  in  an- 
other, especially  in  a  woman,  my  own  defects.  I  know 
my  own  face,  and,  if  I  want  to  see  it,  I  have  only  to 
look  in  the  glass ;  and  I  do  not  wish  to  see  other  faces 
that  are  the  same.     I  should  like  to  change  its  ugliness, 


g2  THE   SrOKY   OF  COLETTE. 

and  my  huge  nose  appears  to  better  advantage  beside 
small  ones  than  in  the  vicinity  of  those  that  are  like  it. 

On  her  return,  she  began  serving  the  meal  which  the 
old  servant  had  brought,  moving  about  with  a  vivacity 
full  of  o-ood  intentions,  but  with  such  awkwardness, 
that,  after  the  first  few  minutes,  I  dared  not  even  ask 
for  bread.  She  just  escaped  cutting  off  the  end  of  her 
thumb  with  the  slice,  the  dishes  rattled  under  her 
fingers,  and  you  have  never  seen  anything  less  feminine 
than  this  young  girl. 

"  Timidity,"  you  will  say — "  it  was  your  green  eyes 
which  disturbed  her."  Do  you  think  so  ?  Was  it  my 
fault  also  about  the  coffee,  which  I  took  from  her  hands 
and  drank  to  the  last  drop  ? 

Ah  !  my  friend,  every  man  has  his  bitter  cup,  which 
he  must  drain  in  this  world,  without  speaking  of  those 
which  purgatory  has  in  store  for  him.  I  know  it,  and  I 
am  resigned ;  but  mine  was  intolerably  bitter  that  day  ! 

From  my  bed  I  watched  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange 
squatting  down  before  the  hearth,  preparing  the  mixt- 
ure with  the  confidence  of  knowledge,  and,  though  it 
seemed  to  me  hardly  as  it  ought  to  be,  my  own  inex- 
perience kept  me  from  making  remarks,  at  least  until  I 
should  have  tasted  it.     But  then! 

Have  you  any  remembrance  of  cream  that  has 
turned,  when  you  were  a  child,  which  made  you  weep 
with  disappointment  ?  And  can  you  still  sec  something 
thick  and  cloudy,  with  little  specks  of  unknown  origin 
swimming  about  in  it  and  multiplying?  My  poor 
Jacques,  it  was  a  thing  like  that  which  was  offered  to 


THE   SrORY  OF  COLETTE.  ^3 

me.  I  confess  I  was  vexed,  and  the  perfume  of  the 
mocha,  which  passed  under  my  nose  in  the  form  of 
smoke,  made  me  scowl. 

I  can  hear  you  pitying  the  culprit  and  abusing  me 
for  my  bad  humor.  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  you  can  keep 
your  pity  ;  her  embarrassment  was  not  great,  I  assure 
you,  and  I  even  believe  that,  if  she  had  had  the  slight- 
est encouragement,  she  would  have  laughed  outright. 

But,  in  reality,  I  did  not  find  it  in  the  least  funny ;  I 
did  not  move,  and,  possessed  with  the  idea  of  making  it 
all  right,  she  imagined  an  expedient  which  pleased  her 
so  much  that  she  communicated  it  to  me  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  pleasure.  She  ran  to  a  wardrobe,  pulled 
out  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  strained  me  a  cup  of  her 
horrible  mixture  in  a  corner  of  the  muslin,  which  she 
held  up  delicately.  I  acknowledge  it  was  clean,  but  you 
must  confess  that  this  strainer  was  of  a  doubtful  charac- 
ter, and  not  exactly  fitted  to  calm  my  susceptibilities. 

I  drank  it !  What  would  )'Ou  have  done  ?  But  the 
bitter  taste,  with  an  after-flavor  of  lavender  and  verbena, 
or  what  not,  taken  from  the  cambric,  was  atrocious  ! 

Then,  with  the  pleasing  sentiment  of  duty  done,  she 
placed  herself  in  her  huge  arm-chair,  her  head  reaching 
hardly  half-wa}'  up  the  back,  and  I  tried  to  make  her 
talk. 

Do  you  want  to  hear  the  number  of  her  attachments, 
in  their  order  ?  She  makes  no  mystery  about  it :  her 
old  nurse,  her  dog,  and  that  is  all ;  for  her  aunt  only 
comes  in  as  twenty-fifth  to  fill  up — and  scarcely  that ! 

As  for  my  accident,  she  stated    her  sentiments   at 


94  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

once,  without  coaxing.  It  amuses  her — oh  !  it  amuses 
her,  do  you  hear  ?  She  has  never  seen  anything  funnier 
than  this  adventure  !  There  is  satisfaction  in  thinking 
that  it  diverts  some  one,  if  not  me ! 

Starting  from  this  point,  our  cordiality  did  not  in- 
crease, as  you  will  understand,  w^hen  the  duenna  came 
in  very  fortunately  to  relieve  our  embarrassment.  Made- 
moiselle d'Erlange  flew  off,  and  I — who  unfortunately 
could  not — I  settled  myself  on  my  pillows,  resolved  to 
hold  on  to  Benoite,  as  she  was  there,  and  not  to  let  her 
go  until  1  had  got  out  of  her  old  head  everything  that 
was  in  it. 

Only,  our  two  wills  were  on  this  point  diametrically 
opposed,  and  she  seemed  as  decided  to  keep  silent  as  I 
to  make  her  speak  ;  so  that  for  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour 
we  played  at  cross-purposes,  she  diverging,  and  I  bring- 
ing her  back  to  the  point,  only  to  see  her  slip  once  more 
out  of  my  fingers,  until  I  conquered  the  position  by  a 
ruse. 

My  friend,  if  you  still  dare  to  defend  the  delicate 
little  fingers  which  handle  the  porcelain  so  gently,  and 
which  know  how  to  make  such  delicious  coffee,  learn 
that  it  is  their  mark  that  I  bear  on  my  forehead,  and  my 
antipathy  to  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  was  a  premonition. 

Bad  intention,  I  do  not  say,  but  rather  too  rash  an 
act  you  will  acknowledge,  I  think,  and  above  all  when 
you  know  the  nature  of  the  missile  employed.  It  is 
heavy,  massive,  and  a  noble  metal.  Do  you  guess? 
Certainly  you  can  not,  and  if  you  tried  a  hundred  times 
you  would  not  be  further  advanced. 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


95 


Do  you  see  that  image  of  St.  Joseph  almost  hidden 
in  the  corner  of  my  room,  as  if  he  wanted  to  sink  into 
the  wall?  It  is  a  beautiful 
thing,  well  finished,  chiseled 
in  solid  silver,  which  I  should 
without  hesitation  attribute  to 
the  Italian  school,  and  which 
might  even  be  signed  Cellini, 
so  exquisite  is  the  work.  It 
is,  however,  the  instrument  of 
my  misfortune. 

In  order  that  you  may  un- 
derstand how  it  happened,  we 
must  go  back  some  days,  and 
you  must  imagine  Mademoi- 
selle d'Erlange  so  penetrated 
with  the  virtues  of  this  saint, 
believing   in  him   so  entirely, 

so   full   of   a   passionate   veneration   for   him,  that   she 
passed  the  best  part  of  each  day  at  his  feet ! 

Then  suddenly,  without  apparent  reason,  from  morti- 
fication or  fatigue,  a  difficulty  arose  between  them,  and 
the  young  suppliant,  passing  from  one  feeling  to  another, 
became  as  ardent  in  resentment  as  she  had  been  humble 
in  humility,  and  finally,  in  an  access  of  impious  rage,  cast 
the  once  revered  statuette  ignominiously  out  of  doors. 

Not  to  pray  to  it  any  more  was  too  little.  The  old 
idolaters  are  not  the  only  ones  who  like  to  burn  what 
they  have  adored  ;  and,  besides,  as  the  good  Benoite 
told  me,  sighing,  "  The  child  never  uses  half-measures." 


q6  the   story  of  COLETTE. 

So  far,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  against  this  way  of 
acting.  1  do  not  know  the  wrongs  of  the  young  rebel ; 
it  was  her  right,  perhaps,  and  in  every  case  it  was 
strictly  her  own  affair.  But  the  worst  is  that,  while 
this  little  comedy  was  being  acted,  in  the  usual  way  in 
this  world,  it  was  the  innocent  who  was  destined  to  suffer 
for  the  guilty. 

You  have  guessed,  my  friend  :  this  time  the  lamb  of 
the  fable  was  to  be  I,  and  the  hour  when  my  unfortu- 
nate reveries  of  which  I  have  told  you  led  me  along 
that  road,  was  also  the  one  in  which  Mademoiselle 
d'Erlange  sent  the  poor  saint  flying  over  the  country, 
committing  thus  the  double  sin  of  attempting  the  life 
of  a  fellow-being,  and  inflicting  the  most  mortifying 
treatment  on  an  object  belonging  to  the  Church. 

Without  ceremony,  and  forgetting  its  sacred  and 
pacific  character,  it  cut  open  my  forehead  with  the  skill 
of  a  professional  bomb.  So  this  is  how,  without  a  crime 
with  which  society  or  the  gods  can  reproach  me,  I  have 
narrowly  escaped  death,  and  am  still  threatened  with  a 
stiff  knee — or  at  least  a  damaged  one — and  all  because  a 
young  person  and  a  silver  statuette  had  a  difference  to 
settle  ! 

What  do  you  think  now  of  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange? 
Can  you  not  see  the  claws  under  her  rosy  nails,  and  will 
you  be  quite  tranquil  about  me  during  the  hours  when 
she  is  alone  to  watch  with  me  '  I  am  awaiting  with  more 
curiosity  than  I  can  tell  you  the  explanation  which  must 
certainly  take  place  between  us  on  this  subject.  Will 
this  proud  Amazon  show  confusion?     Nothing  is  more 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  gy 

uncertain,  and  I  am  reserving  all  my  decision  for  the 
attempt  to  come  out  of  it  with  the  honors  of  war. 

I  am  certainly  her  victim  !  She  must  not  forget  that  ; 
and,  if  she  make  slight  of  the  thing,  I  will  tear  off  my 
bandage  like  the  heroes  in  the  pages  of  Anne  Radcliffe, 
and  show  her  my  gaping  wound  ! 


March  sgth. 

Benoite  has  spoken.  Monsieur  Pierre  knows  all ! 
Heavens  !  what  shall  I  say,  and  how  shall  I  dare  to  see 
him  ?  I  have  kept  on  saying  these  things  to  myself  since 
yesterday,  without  ever  finding  a  solution. 

In  a  certain  sense,  I  am  not  sorry  that  he  knows. 
Doubtful  situations  have  always  been  odious  to  me,  and 
I  remember  the  time  when  as  a  child  I  asked  my  aunt 
to  give  me  "  two  slaps  at  once  "  rather  than  the  punish- 
ment she  was  reserving  for  me  in  the  evening.  Since 
now  I  am  really  to  blame,  I  should  not  be  sorry  to  know 
at  once  what  it  is  to  be.  But  how  to  present  myself, 
and  with  what  words  to  begin  ?  I  could  not  think,  or, 
at  least,  what  I  had  in  my  head  escaped  as  soon  as  I  ap- 
proached the  fatal  door. 

Ten  times  in  the  afternoon  I  came  so  near  that  I  half 
turned  the  latch,  but  each  time,  seized  with  fear  at  the 
last  moment,  I  f^ed  before  I  had  opened  the  door.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  all  my  ideas  stayed  behind  in  the 
library,  which  I  have  taken  for  my  room  lately,  for,  as  soon 
as  I  go  back  there,  words  crowd  upon  me,  I  gesticulate 
nobly,  and  the  phrases  most  fit  to  move  a  haughty  heart 


98  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

come  to  my  lips.  I  advance  thus  to  a  divan,  where  I 
suppose  Monsieur  de  Civreuse  to  be  extended,  so  as  to 
make  the  rehearsal  realistic,  and,  seizing  the  corner  of  a 
cushion  as  I  propose  to  do  with  his  hand — 

"  Sir,"  I  say,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  pardon  me,  I 
beg  you  !  I  have  committed  a  foolish  act  which  will 
cause  me  remorse  forever,  and  of  which  I  can  not  think 
even  now  without  terror.  See  how  unhappy  I  am,  and 
tell  me,  I  beg  you,  that  you  are  not  too  angry  with  me ! 
Until  then  I  can  not  pardon  myself,  and  I  hate  not  to  be 
at  peace  with  myself,  for  the  reproaches  which  I  suffer 
are  more  bitter  than  anything  you  can  imagine." 

The  cushion  draws  my  hand  toward  it,  kisses  court- 
eously the  tips  of  my  fingers,  and  gives  me  absolution. 

Full  of  my  subject  I  started,  but,  in  going  out  of  the 
door,  m}'  discourse  became  slightly  uncertain  ;  in  pass- 
ing through  the  hall  it  was  half  gone.  The  rest  followed 
quickly,  so  that  I  arrived  at  the  decisive  spot  with  empty 
hands. 

Then  I  returned  with  a  bound,  and,  by  a  kind  of  sor- 
cery, my  ideas  came  back  of  themselves  on  my  way, 
rising  from  the  floor,  coming  from  the  wood-work,  and 
resuming  their  place,  so  that,  wlicn  1  arrived  at  tiic  svm- 
bolical  divan,  I  had  reconquered  my  composure,  and 
was  ready  to  move  him  by  other  arguments,  like  the 
first,  only  more  persuasive. 

But  I  had  to  make  an  end  of  it;  it  was  getting  late,  and, 
as  I  could  not  keep  Monsieur  de  Civreuse  in  the  dark.  I 
had  to  take  in  liis  lamp.  It  was  evident  Ihat  so  long  as 
I  reflected  I  siiould  keep  on  making  the  same  ridiculous 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  qq 

attempts,  and  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  take  myself  by 
surprise. 

So,  with  my  head  down,  like  something  that  has  been 
thrown,  I  went  in  and  walked  straight  to  the  bed,  trust- 
ing to  my  star  to  find  a  lucky  phrase  to  begin  with,  and 
I  think  I  was  just  going  to  find  it. 

But  Monsieur  de  Civreuse,  after  bowing  to  me,  be 
gan  to  look  behind  me  in  the  back  of  the  room  with  such 
singular  persistency,  bending  over  to  see  better,  keeping 
his  eye  obstinately  fixed  on  the  door,  that  in  spite  of  my 
preoccupation  I  turned,  possessed  with  the  idea  that  I 
had  dragged  in  some  absurd  thing  on  my  dress.  There 
was  nothing  at  all,  and,  as  I  looked  surprised — 

"  I  thought  you  were  pursued,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  tranquilly. 

Then  he  put  his  head  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  gest- 
ure of  relief,  letting  his  eyelid  fall  with  an  air  of  being 
so  much  at  his  ease,  that  a  bolder  person  than  I  am  might 
have  lost  heart,  I  think.  Standing  up,  motionless,  with 
an  evident  look  of  perplexity,  beginning  words  which  I 
could  not  finish,  holding  my  lamp  in  m}'^  hand,  which  I 
forgot  to  put  down,  I  felt  terribly  awkward,  and  would 
have  given  much  if  I  could  have  assumed  the  superb 
attitude  of  Monsieur  de  Civreuse,  or,  at  least,  have  known 
what  to  do  with  my  hands  and  feet,  which  had  never 
seemed  so  much  in  my  way. 

As  for  him,  he  leaned  back  with  the  majestic  non- 
chalance of  a  Roman  emperor,  having  no  awkward 
movement  to  fear  in  his  comfortable  position,  and  in- 
solently making  the  most  of  all  his  advantages. 


lOO  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

The  thing  could  not  go  on  long  like  this  without  be- 
coming ridiculous  ;  besides,  his  provoking  coolness  stung 
me  like  a  lash.  Since  he  would  not  help  me,  so  much 
the  worse;  I  would  speak  straight  out  as  best  I  could, 
and  explain  things  to  him  just  as  they  were. 

I  did  it  at  once.  I  advanced  another  step,  and  put 
my  lamp  on  the  table. 

"  Here  is  your  lamp,"  I  began  rapidly — that  was  the 
very  ingenious  way  in  which  I  began — "  and  I  beg  you 
to  accept  my  sincere  regrets  for  the  deplorable  accident 
from  which  you  are  still  suffering  ;  but,  really,  it  was 
not  my  fault." 

"  Really,  1  do  not  think  an)"  one  can  accuse  me  of  it 
either,"  he  said,  quietly  raising  his  head  and  looking  at 
me. 

"  1  do  not  say  so,"  I  stammered,  losing  countenance. 
And,  as  he  nodded  his  head  in  a  manner  which  signified, 
"  Well,  this  is  lucky,"  I  resumed,  interrupting  myself 
quickly,  "  That  is  to  say,  I  know  very  well  it  is  mv 
fault,  but  what  I  mean  to  sa}'  is,  that  I  did  not  do  it  on 
purpose." 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  answered,  with  a 
sarcastic  smile. 

"  For  really,"  I  continued,  becoming  animated,  "how 
could  I  know  that  there  was  any  one  there?  That  road 
belongs  to  us,  and  usually  no  one  passes." 

"  Certainly,"  he  rej)lied,  with  the  same  phlegm,  "  it 
was  I  who  was  in  the  wrong  place,  and,  lioni  tiie  mo- 
ment that  T  was  on  your  land,  you  were  quite  in  your 
right.     Grand  seigneurs  are  rulers  on  their  own  estates, 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


lOI 


and  have  the  liberty  to  settle  their  quarrels  as  they  like 
without  warning.  It  is  the  business  of  those  who  pass 
to  look  about  them,  and  protect  themselves." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  I  exclaimed,  "  you  make  me  say  stupid 
things  that  you  know  very  well  I  do  not  think,  and  you 
answer  my  request  for  pardon  very  maliciously." 

And  as  I  felt  that  the  tears  were  coming  in  spite  of 
all  my  efforts,  I  was  going  to  escape,  when  he  stopped 
me  with  a  gesture,  forgetting  this  time  his  insupportable 
coldness. 

"  Mademoiselle,  it  is  I  who    beg  your  pardon  now. 
I  am  brutal,  and  I  should  like  to  beat  myself  for  having 
made  the  nurse,  who  has  taken  such 
good    care   of   me,    weep.     Will   you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  make  tears 
flow,  and  another  to  stop  them.  I 
smiled.  I  answered,  "  Yes,  yes,"  with 
my  head  ;  but  the  flow  had  begun, 
and  had  to  have  its  course.  I  bit  my 
lips  in  vain ;  pressed  my  handker- 
chief, rolled  up  into  a  ball,  in  my 
eyes,  and  with  all  my  trying  I  resem- 
bled a  fountain. 

From  time  to  time  Monsieur  de  Civreuse  repeated 
his  excuses,  and  really,  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I  was 
not  sorry  to  see  in  that  great  icy  eye  a  little  anxiety 
and  embarrassment.  After  all  the  trouble  he  had  given 
me  for  a  fortnight,  it  was  only  just.  However,  I  was 
not  malicious.     I  calmed  myself  as  soon  as  I  could,  for 


I02  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

I  saw  very  well  that  the  scene  embarrassed  him,  and,  as 
soon  as  I  found  my  voice,  we  both  began  at  the  same 
time — 

"  So  you  are  not  angry  with  me? " 

"  Do  you  really  forgive  me  ?  " 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  taking  up  my  pro- 
gramme where  1  had  left  it  ;  only  he  contented  himself 
with  pressing  it  gently,  and  he  added,  smiling,  but  this 
time  without  bitterness : 

"  So,  then,  it  is  a  complete  amnesty,  even  for  him,  is 
it  not  ?  " 

And  he  pointed  with  his  finger  at  my  unfortunate 
statuette  of  Saint  Joseph,  which  was  back  again,  I  know 
not  by  what  miracle,  in  one  of  the  corners  of  my  room. 

The  color  mounted  to  my  eyes,  augmenting  the  heat 
of  my  face,  which  was  already  burning,  while  I  was 
sure  my  nose  was  swollen  and  deplorably  shiny  ;  and 
as  I  did  not  answer,  Monsieur  de  Civreuse  was  afraid 
that  I  would  begin  to  cry  again,  and  so  added,  hur- 
riedly : 

"  You  ma}'  make  voursclf  easy,  mademoiselle.  I 
know  nothing  of  the  nature  of  your  wrongs;  I  only 
know  the  punishment,  but  not  its  cause." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  I  answered;  "one  would  have 
had  to  read  inside  my  head  for  that.  1  have  told  no 
one." 

He  did  not  insist,  and  1  went  to  bathe  my  eyes. 

The  doctor,  who  has  just  left,  is  delighted  witii  the 
forehead  of  his  patient.  He  says  it  is  getting  well  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  miracle;  but  as  to  tiie  knee,  he  told 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE.  103 

me  in  confidence  that  it  is  no  better  yet,  and  that  time, 
and  keeping  it  perfectly  still,  are  the  only  things  which 
can  completely  cure  it.  Please  heaven  that  Monsieur 
de  Civreuse  may  consent  to  swallow  these  two  bitter 
draughts  ! 

As  for  me,  it  is  with  a  relief  which  I  can  not  express 
that  I  now  stay  with  my  patient.  There  is  no  longer  a 
painful  explanation  to  look  forwai-d  to,  and  although  his 
temper  is  not  yet  sensibly  softened,  I  feel  myself  more 
at  ease  with  him. 

He  remains  slightly  melancholy,  always  cold,  with  a 
tendency  to  irony  which  is  constantly  showing  itself. 

"  I  was  born  bad-tempered,"  he  said  to  me  just  now, 
"  and  as  no  one  thought  of  pulling  up  this  weed  in  my 
spring-time,  it  is  now  a  small  oak,  to  which  even  I  f>ay 
no  more  attention." 

"  And  what  do  your  friends  say  of  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  They  generally  get  used  to  it,  or,  when  they  are 
tired  of  it,  they  prune  it  a  little." 

"  I  think  the}^  are  very  good,"  I  could  not  help  say- 
ing ;  "  in  their  places  I  should  look  for  another  shade 
rather  than  this  small  oak,  where  one  does  not  seem  to 
me  safe." 

He  drew  up  his  eyebrows.  It  is  his  way,  when  he  is 
not  pleased  and  yet  does  not  wish  to  say  so,  and  I  have 
discovered  that  it  means  in  words,  "  Go  away  ! "  which 
I  have  done. 

Finally,  I  am  like  his  friends,  and  think  that  the 
branches  of  his  oak  have  particular  need  of  pruning, 
and  that  it  has  grown  up  crooked  but  vigorous. 


I04 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


Pierre  to  Jaeques. 

My  friend,  do  you  know  anv  ari^umcnt  at  once  more 
commonplace  and  more  irresistible  than  tears?  It  is  as 
old  as  sin ;  everybody  uses  it ;  everybody  knows,  too, 
the  simplicity  of  the  proceeding,  and,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  everybody  is  moved  by  it  in  spite  of  himself.  Eve 
obtained  her  first  pardon  and  sealed  her  first  reconcilia- 
tion with  this  beneficent  liquid,  and  Mademoiselle  d'Er- 
lange — be  it  said  without  comparison — has  used  it  so 
well,  just  now,  that  not  only  is  peace  signed  between 
us,  but  it  was  I  who  begged  for  mercy. 

Can  you  imagine  a  position  at  once  more  ridiculous 
and  more  embarrassing  than  that  of  a  man  wlio  makes  a 
woman  cry,  when  the  woman  is  a  complete  stranger  to 
him  ?  With  her  eyes  in  her  handkerchief,  her  broken 
voice,  her  explanations  broken  by  deep  sighs — which  he 
hears  in  fragments — he  feels  like  an  executioner,  and  he 
does  not  know  how  to  act.  To  look  at  her  is  indiscreet. 
To  turn  away  his  head  is  cynical,  for  that  seems  to  say, 
"  What  does  it  matter  to  me  ?  "  and  he  can  only  confess 
himself  a  miserable  sinner,  and  beg  pardon  humbly. 

And  then,  I  do  not  know  if  you  are  like  me,  but 
things  that  are  slightly  known  or  rarelv  experienced 
make  a  deeper  impression.  If  I  hear  of  broken  bones 
and  cuts,  I  know  what  they  are.  I  have  had  them.  But 
her  tears,  the  impetuous,  uninterrupted  flood,  resembled 
so  little  the  tears  whicli  1  have  ever  shed — rare  tears, 
and  always  concealed — that  I  watched  them  with  a 
vague   fear  of  the   unknown,  asking  myself   when  and 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  IO5 

how  it  would  end,  and  also  what  would  happen  to 
Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  afterward,  and  if  she  was  not 
in  danger  of  melting  entirely,  like  a  naiad  who  feeds  a 
living  spring.  So  I  was  ready  for  any  capitulation,  and 
I  considered  myself  most  fortunate  to  barter  grievance 
for  grievance,  and  to  give  my  pardon  for  that  which 
she  vouchsafed  me. 

There  is  only  this  poor  saint  whom  she  will  not  hear 
of  forgiving.  I  tried  to  intercede  for  him,  but  the  facts 
must  have  been  very  serious,  for  she  remained  unmoved, 
and  I  dared  not  risk  disturbing  our  peace — so  recent 
and  so  dearly  bought — by  too  much  zeal. 

And  I,  who  considered  myself  master  of  the  situa- 
tion, quite  superior  in  my  just  anger  to  this  scatter-brain, 
who  arranged  so  well  in  my  own  mind  all  the  truths 
that  I  wished  to  tell  her,  and  which  it  would  be  good 
for  her  to  hear  once  !  You  laugh — traitor  !  It  is  very 
misplaced,  I  assure  you,  and  I  was  never  more  in- 
disposed to  acknowledge  you  in  the  right.  Besides, 
our  peace  is  at  best  but  an  armistice.  We  are  agreed 
on  one  point,  but  only  on  one — we  are  not  to  speak 
of  the  cause  which  has  procured  us  the  pleasure  of  the 
tete-a-tete  of  a  month,  which  I  groan  to  think  of ;  and, 
besides,  causes  of  dissension  are  not  wanting,  I  assure 
you. 

Think  of  the  most  dissimilar  things  in  the  world — 
black  and  white,  fire  and  water,  two  horses  galloping  in 
a  circle  in  opposite  directions,  so  as  to  knock  against 
each  other  in  every  round — and  you  have  us  in  the 
large  sculptured  chamber,  where   I  am  being  mended 


106  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

like  the  most  common  of  knickkiiacks.  and  waitinc^  to 
dry. 

But  no.  my  definition  is  bad.  Do  not  read  absolute 
dissimilarity,  for  she  resembles  me,  my  dear  fellow,  and 
it  is  that  which  is  hateful  to  me,  as  I  have  already  told 
you  !  She  wears  a  dress,  is  adorned  with  a  head  of  hair 
which  I  could  only  have  had  in  the  Merovinjjian  aije,  is 
endowed  with  her  first  freshness  of  candor  and  inno- 
cence, which  also  is  not  mine ;  btit,  except  this,  we  are 
as  twin  brothers.  Yet,  for  a  woman,  you  will  agree, 
there  could  be  a  better  model  than  your  friend,  and  she 
would  gain  in  grace  and  charm  what  she  would  lose  in 
similitude.  Of  all  types,  that  of  "good  fellow  "  is  the 
one  I  have  always  disliked  the  most.  I  should  like  her 
better  dreamy,  coquettish,  prudish,  fanciful,  anything 
that  would  give  me  a  varied  study  during  my  seclusion, 
rather  than  this  jovial  and  capricious  self-confidence 
which  shows  itself  in  the  classical  hand-shake,  which  the 
nervous  hands  and  pointed  elbows  of  the  daughters  of 
Albion  have  imported  for  us,  and  which  is  the  thing  I 
can  least  easily  pardon  them — always  excepting  their 
ugliness.  Just  now,  all  in  tears,  she  was  more  feminine. 
But  you  must  not  understand  that  at  that  moment  I  was 
much  more  amused,  nor  that  I  was  precisely  at  my  ease; 
but  I  like  the  respect  for  old  usages,  and  1  think  yovuig 
girls  should  be  timid,  submissive,  a  little  cowardly,  per- 
haps imaginative,  an  octave  higher  than  we  are,  like  the 
difference  between  the  masculine  and  feminine  vt)ice. 

After  all,  perhaps  1  shall  divert  myself  all  the  better. 
I  set  out  in  search  of  new  countries,  strange  types,  origi- 


THE    STORY   GF   COLETTE. 


107 


nal  characters  to  study,  yet  it  is  said  that  what  French- 
men know  the  least  is  France !     Let  us  study  France, 
since  we  are  in  it,  and  you   must 
receive  my  traveler's  notes  with 

the   same    good-will    as    if    they  '  mt- 

came  to  you   from   the   banks  of  ^    (/  W 

the  sacred    Ganges,    or    the    not  /        •» 

less  sacred  hcierhts  of  the  Hima- 


'!=> 


*---i 


''i 


layas.     They    will   have   at   least  '^^"^  ^ 

the  merit  of  being  more  recent  i  y  \r~^ 

than  after  a  longer  journey;  and  • 

when  one  thinks  of  all  the  charm- 
ing things  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre 
discovered  in  a  simple  straw- 
berry-leaf, I  must  be  very  stupid 
if  I  can  not  do  as  much  for  the 
greater  space  in  which  I  am. 

But   I   wander  from   my  sub-  '  "   ^i 

ject.  I  browse  on  philosophi- 
cal questions,  like  a  simple  donkey  on  the  bushes 
by  the  road,  and  the  equipage  in  which  I  am  taking 
you  is  a  little  shaken  by  it,  I  think.  You  want  a  true 
history,  do  you  not }  We  were  at  the  tears  of  Made- 
moiselle d'Erlange,  and  I  am  sure  you  think  that  with  a 
word  I  would  stop  them,  as  I  confess  I  made  them  burst 
forth.  I  would  make  excuses,  it  would  be  over,  and  we 
should  then  be  better  friends  than  ever. 

O  my  friend,  God  forbid  that  you  should  ever 
provoke  a  crisis  which  you  find  yourself  unable  to  con- 
trol in  a   moment,  for  it  is  terrible !     One  feels  one's 


I08  7//A    STORY  Of-    COLETTE. 

self  helpless  before  an  overwhelming  torrent,  it  is  said, 
because  it  is  something  which  one  can  not  master. 
What  will  you  say  to  me,  then,  of  a  young  girl's  tears? 
Can  dikes  be  made  against  them  ?  1  became  gentle — 
humble,  in  truth  ;  I  gave  up  everything,  and  the  stream 
still  flowed,  and  it  was  marvelous  to  see  the  same  little 
handkerchief,  no  bigger  than  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
turned  over  and  over,  kneaded  on  all  sides,  and  yet 
sufficient  for  the  work  I  All  loldcd  up,  it  just  hlled  the 
hollow  of  her  eye;  so  exactlv,  in  fact,  that  she  had  to 
dry  one  eye  after  the  other,  but  it  was  done  so  quickly 
that  one  could  hardly  see  the  one  which  was  uncovered  ; 
and,  in  spite  of  my  embarrassment,  I  could  not  help 
watching  curiously  this  admirable  dexterity. 

I  should  say,  however,  that  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange 
did  not  abuse  her  position.  She  calmed  herself  as  soon 
as  she  could,  held  out  her  hand  without  ill-feeling,  and 
at  my  request  sat  down  by  me,  without  running  away 
as  she  evidently  wanted  to  do. 

I  had  now  to  retrieve  myself,  and  I  felt  that  niv 
moment  of  blundering  had  to  be  paid  for  bv  great 
amiability.  I  had  to  give  myself  the  trouble  to  talk,  to 
amuse  her,  to  take  away  the  too  great  violence  of  my 
brutality,  and  I  think  I  did  not  come  out  of  it  badlv. 

At  the  beginning,  her  words  were  interrupted  by 
deep  sighs — real  sighs,  like  those  of  a  child  in  distress — 
and  a  tear  would  come  from  time  to  time  and  require 
the  help  of  the  famous  handkerchief ;  but  little  by  little 
she  became  animated,  so  much  so  that  at  the  end  of  a 
few  minutes  I  could  hardly  follow  her. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  109 

It  seems  to  be  a  real  pleasure  to  her  to  talk ;  she 
does  it  with  vivacity,  without  much  connection,  as  if 
it  were  simply  a  healthy  gymnastic  exercise  for  her 
tongue.  Questions,  reflections,  facts,  rush  out  in  cu- 
rious confusion :  she  takes  her  ideas  from  the  heap, 
without  sorting  them,  and  scatters  them  as  one  scatters 
seed  to  the  sparrows.  "  Hop  !  hop  ! — catch  who  can  !  " 
I  will  bet  a  good  deal  that  the  parable  of  the  sower  in 
the  Bible  has  never  occupied  her  attention  much,  and 
that  what  is  lost  in  the  thorns  of  the  road  or  among  the 
rocks  is  one  of  the  last  things  she  thinks  about. 

Do  not  imagine,  however,  that  it  is  vulgar  gossip  ; 
her  inexhaustible  animation  is  rather  the  result  of  su- 
perabundant vitality ;  and  if  I  am  not  deceived,  she 
thus  spends  her  forces  because  she  has  nothing  else  to 
do,  though  she  gives  herself  occupation,  1  assure  you ! 
While  she  talks,  she  goes  and  comes,  plays  wath  her. 
dog,  arranges  and  disarranges  the  fire  twenty  times  in 
an  hour,  so  that  she  half  puts  it  out  and  fills  the  room 
with  smoke.  Then  she  opens  the  windows,  excusing 
herself,  and  builds  up  a  fire,  the  flames  of  which  dart 
so  high  that  they  have  to  be  put  out  with  a  pail  of 
water  to  keep  us  from  a  greater  misfortune. 

Sitting,  she  brings  up  her  two  feet  under  her  in  the 
Turkish  fashion  —  like  her  coffee — and  balances  her 
bod}^  as  she  talks,  in  a  way  most  dangerous  for  her 
equilibrium,  which,  to  be  just,  she  keeps  marvelously. 
I  got  out  of  breath  merely  by  looking  at  her. 

"  You  are  feverish,"  my  doctor  said  to  me  a  little 
later ;   "  what    is    the   matter  ?      Have    we   given    you 


no  THE   STORY   OF  COLETTE. 

hearty  food  too  soon,  and  must  we  go  back  to  dosing 
you  with  sick-man's  broth  ?" 

"■  It  would  be  better  to  dose  this  will-o'-thc  wisp,"  I 
felt  like  saying. 

But,  to  consider  the  whole  question,  Jacques,  you 
must  remember  that  fourteen  hours  a  day  of  solitude 
is  a  great  deal  when  one  is  incapable  of  moving.  I 
must  not  complain  too  much  of  distractions. 

Our  very  varied  conversation  has  given  mc  some 
ideas  of  the  people  and  things  around  us. 

The  chateau,  of  which  I  have  perhaps  spoken  a 
little    too  grandly,  is  not  exactly   what    I   expected    it 

to  be,  and  is 
like  stage  scen- 
ery, which  looks 
very  different- 
ly seen  from  be- 
fore and  behind. 
Its  grandeur 
dates  from  Louis 
XIII  and  its 
downfall  fiom 
tiic  Revolution  ; 
which  proves,  as 
]M.  Prudhomme 
would  tell  you,  that  happiness  is  more  lasting  in  this 
world  than  misfortune,  contrary  to  the  general  opin- 
ion, and  which  signifies  simply  that  one  hundred  years 
is  the  extreme  limit  during  whicli  walls  consent  to 
stand   without  help.     Whatever  the  reason   may  be.  an 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  m 

entire  wing,  a  belfry,  and  two  towers  have  already 
disappeared  from  this  noble  building. 

They  fell  easily,  like  well-bred  towers,  as  people  who 
are  tired  of  standing  sit  on  the  floor  for  want  of  a 
better  place.  Then,  the  ivy  which  they  dragged  down 
got  green  again  ;  wild  grasses  and  wild  flowers,  see- 
ing that  no  one  thought  of  rooting  them  up,  began  to 
bloom  ;  and  the  next  year  birds  made  their  nests  there, 
finding  good  shelter  in  such  a  pleasant  wilderness. 

"  A  story  of  old  walls,"  you  will  tell  me ;  "  I  know 
your  ruin  before  you  describe  it ;  these  chateaux  in  de- 
cay all  resemble  one  another." 

And  do  the  ways  in  which  owners  act  resemble  one 
another  also  ?  Do  you  think  that  you  have  seen  many 
places  where  they  behave  as  they  do  at  Erlange  under 
these  circumstances? 

When  the  crevices  become  too  numerous,  and  the 
cracks  make  the  walls  look  like  people  who  are  at 
their  last  gasp,  and  the  stones  yield  too  much  to 
the  wind,  each  member  of  the  family  takes  her  belong- 
ings, everything  that  can  be  moved  without  too  much 
trouble,  and  philosophically  transports  herself  and  her 
baggage  to  another  more  hospitable  portion  still  stand- 
ing. 

The  first  tempest  gets  the  better  of  the  abandoned 
tenement :  it  sinks,  and  becomes  the  palace  of  bats  and 
owls  ;  while  the  emigrants  remake  their  nests,  accom- 
modating themselves  to  their  new  quarters,  finding  out 
advantages  and  disadvantages,  no  more  affected  by  the 
change  than  a  tribe  of  ancient   Gauls   that  moved   its 


H2  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

camp  in  the  morning  to  find  a  new  country  and  new 
game  at  evening ! 

They  have  thus  successively  left  the  north  tower  for 
the  south  tower,  and  the  right  wing  for  the  center ;  and 
if  the  center  gives  way  in  its  turn — and  with  these 
snows,  \vhich  crush  everything,  one  must  be  prepared — 
there  will  remain  the  left  wing,  which  was  more  re- 
cently repaired,  with  one  or  two  towers,  besides  the 
chapel  and  the  servants'  rooms. 

This  ofives  sufficient  shelter  for  Mademoiselle  d'Er- 
lange  and  her  pets,  which  is  likely  to  endure,  and  of 
course  for  the  lifetime  of  the  mysterious  aunt,  with 
whom  I  am  still  unacquainted,  and  whom  I  sometimes 
think  a  myth. 

All  this  is  certainly  the  highest  philosophy,  if  it  is 
not  madness,  and  yet  it  is  the  fact.  Mademoiselle  d'Er. 
lange  even  seems  to  consider  the  state  of  affairs  quite  of 
course.  To  hear  her,  one  would  think  that  she  was 
speaking  of  the  most  insignificant  change,  like  the  ne- 
cessity of  changing  one's  seat  in  a  garden  when  the  sun 
turns  the  corner  of  your  sheltering  tree,  or  other  simi- 
lar protection. 

"  But  when  the  house  was  falling,  what  would  you 
have  done?  "she  asked  me,  seeing  me  open  my  eyes; 
"  would  you  have  stayed  where  you  were?" 

"  No,  but  1  would  have  restored  it,"  I  answered. 

"  With  whom  ?  With  Benoite  and  me  as  masons, 
and  Frangoise  to  mix  the  plaster  with  her  feet?  " 

"  Who  is  Frangoise?  " 

"  My  marc — a  good  old  beast,  who  knocks  witli  her 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


113 


foot  on  the  stable-door  when  she  wants  to  go  in.  I 
will  show  her  to  you  some  day.  She  is  my  third  af- 
fection." 

"  But  do  you  not  think,"  I  said,  "  that  it  is  a  pity  to 
let  a  fine  building  like  this  go  to  pieces,  and  does  your 
aunt  not  think  so?" 

"  Hum  !  "  she  replied,  shrugging  her  shoulders  and 
laughing  ironically,  "  my  aunt  is  sure  that  the  walls  of 
Erlange  will  outlast  her,  and  as  she  is  certain  of  a  shel- 
ter to  the  end  of  her  days,  what  difference  do  you  sup- 
pose the  '  afterward  '  makes  to  her?  " 

I  dared  not  insist,  as  the  conversation  was  becoming 
too  personal,  and  we  returned  to  generalities.  My 
young  companion  told  me  gayly  how  she  had  furnished 
her  room,  dragging  out  of  all  the  others  what  remained 
in  them,  and  even  going  to  the  chapel  for  the  prie- 
dieus. 

This  is  the  explanation  of  the  large  proportion  of 
monachal  seats  which  struck  me  when  I  first  awoke. 

She  calls  them  odd  chairs,  and  in  speaking  of  them 
she  drags  one  after  the  other  before  my  bed  to  show 
them  to  me. 

"  They  are  all  alike  ;  there  is  not  much  variety,"  she 
said,  turning  them  round,  "  but  they  are  very  pretty 
beside  my  sofas.  Have  you  seen  the  figures  on  my 
sofas  ?  " 

And  she  set  to  work  dragging  one  to  me,  rolling  it 
from  one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other  with  a  frightful 
noise,  and  pushing  it  back  against  the  wall  in  the  same 
rapid  way. 


114  '^'^'''    ^'^ORY   OF   COLETTE. 

From  all  I  can  learn,  the  chateau  is  ciismantled  out- 
side and  inside,  which  has  set  me  wonderincr  what  band 
of  robbers  could  have  thus  devastated  it.  Imprudence 
and  carelessness  can  not  alone  have  done  it,  for  years  do 
not  destroy  all  the  furniture  of  a  chateau  without  the 
aid  of  some  misfortune.  This  idea  troubled  me  ;  for  in 
such  a  case  my  presence  would  be  a  heavy  expense  to 
my  hostesses,  and  I  had  decided  to  consult  the  doctor, 
when  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  took  the  bull  bv  the  horns, 
reading  my  thought  with  marvelous  insight,  and  trans- 
lating it  with  great  accuracy. 

"  Now  you  are  full  of  anxiety  because  we  are  not  so 
rich  as  you  thought  we  were  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Re- 
assure yourself !  If  the  tables  and  chairs  ncccssarv  to 
refurnish  the  house  do  not  grow  at  Erlange,  we  have 
plenty  of  vegetables,  without  counting  chickens  and 
ducks ;  and  as  my  aunt,  who  cares  a  great  deal  about 
her  dear  self,  always  finds  means  to  provide,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  she  has  not  reached  the  bottom  of  her  stock- 
ing, and  that  famine  does  not  threaten  us  yet.  You 
must  remember,  too,  that  it  is  wrong  to  worry  about  it, 
for  it  is  certainly  not  your  fault  that  you  are  here,  and 
it  is  everywhere  the  custom  for  people  to  feed  their 
prisoners." 

This  frank  explanation  put  me  at  my  ease,  and  I  had 
only  to  apologize  for  having  deprived  Mademoiselle 
d'Erlange  of  her  room,  and  to  ask  as  a  favor  to  be 
taken  somewhere  else.  But  she  refused,  telling  me 
that  "  somewhere  else"  was  a  pretentious  jjhrase  here, 
and   besides  that  she  wished   to  keep  nie   in  the  place 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  nc 

where  the  crime  was  committed,  so  as  to  make  a  sort 
of  expiatory  chapel  of  it. 

All  this  made  me  understand  better  a  strange  feature 
which  struck  me  in  the  beginning,  about  the  inequalities 
of  the  table-service,  and  now  I  can  explain  the  medley 
of  the  Sevres  china,  Venetian  glass  in  w^hich  my  wine 
looks  like  liquefied  gold,  massive  silver  which  I  do  not 
like  to  see  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  handle  too  near  me, 
and  table-cloths  of  coarse  unbleached  linen,  with  a  thir- 
teen-sou  knife. 

Yesterday  I  was  struggling  with  a  knife,  tearing  my 
meat  like  a  puppy,  using  the  blade  and  the  back  in  turn 
without  success,  and  nearly  losing  my  patience. 

"It  cuts  badly,  does  it  not?"  said  Mademoiselle 
d'Erlange,  who  looked  at  me  delighted,  "and  you  are 
getting  angry.  Wait — I  have  something  which  will 
help  you  do  it." 

She  ran  to  a  draw^er,  and  triumphantly  brought  me 
back  a  little  dagger  in  an  ivory  sheath,  which  she  drew^ 
out  quickly,  the  steel  flashing  wath  a  blue  light,  and  all 
with  such  vivacity  that  I  shuddered. 

"  There,"  she  said  ;  "  it  cuts  perfectly — I  always  use 
it  for  my  pens.     Will  you  have  it  ?  " 

Such  is  my  table-service,  my  friend ;  and  now  you 
have  a  good  enough  idea  of  m}-  shelter,  also  of  the  per- 
sons about  me :  the  phantom  aunt,  my  doctor,  "  One," 
and  finally  Mademoiselle  Colette,  for  that  is  the  name 
of  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange,  who  kindly  informed  me  of 
the  fact,  as  also  of  the  reflections  which  suggested  them- 
selves to  her. 


1,6  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

"  A  queer  name,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  she,  "  Col — Colette. 
Why  not  Colerettc  ?  What  does  it  mean,  and  where  can 
it  have  come  from  ?  " 

"A  saint  of  the  calendar.  I  suppose — " 

"  Possibly  ;  I  never  thought  of  that !  I  thought  it 
had  been  invented  for  me.  Do  you  know  her,  then,  this 
Saint  Colette  ?  Perhaps  you  have  prayed  to  her  against 
toothache  ?  It  appears  that  it  is  a  sure  thing,  and  that 
one  is  certain  of  being  cured  in  addressing  one's  self  to 
her!" 

"  I  confess  I  have  not,"  I  replied  ;  "  for  one  reason, 
my  teeth  have  got  on  very  well  by  themselves,  up  to 
the  present  time,  and,  for  another,  your  want  of  success 
would  disgust  me  forever  with  nine  days'  prayers,  for  I 
should  never  be  conceited  enough  to  suppose  I  could 
succeed  where  you  had  failed  so  completely." 

She  blushed  to  her  fingers'  ends,  turning  away  her 
head,  but  in  a  moment  she  resumed,  though  in  a  lower 
tone  : 

"  Oh,  what  I  wanted  was  very  difficult ;  that  is  the 
reason." 

She  was  evidently  afraid  of  discouraging  me  bv  her 
want  of  success,  and  of  leading  me  into  temptation  or 
revolt;  so,  half  for  her  frankness,  half  because  I  feared  I 
might  have  wounded  her,  I  added  in  conclusion  : 

"  Certainlv  one  should  never  desj)air  of  anything  ; 
perhaps  what  you  asked  for  is  nearer  than  you  think." 

As  to  Saint  Colette,  I  believe  only  very  moderately  in 
her  virtues,  this  is  the  truth  ;  but  if  you  can  hear  of  one  of 
the  celestial  beings  who    presides  over  the    healing  of 


THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE.  ny 

broken  bones,  burn  a  candle  before  him,  my  friend,  for 
unfortunately  I  do  not  get  any  better. 


March  sSih. 

Lately  an  idea  has  come  to  me,  and  it  is  in  vain  that 
I  shrug  my  shoulders  in  its  face  to  show  that  I  think  it 
absurd  ;  it  stays  there,  and  is  so  firmly  fixed  that  I 
can  think  of  nothing  else. 

But  it  is  so  foolish  that,  in  order  to  write  it,  I  shut 
and  bolt  my  door,  and  turn  over  two  pages,  so  as  to  put 
the  ridiculous  idea  by  itself. 

By  much  thinking  of  my  last  adventure,  of  the  vio- 
lent manner  in  which  I  treated  my  poor  saint,  of  my 
anger,  and  the  result  of  it,  finally  of  the  day  when  M.  de 
Civreuse  was  brought  into  Erlange,  I  asked  myself — I 
have  thought  it  possible — to  speak  plainly,  I  have  the 
idea  that  perhaps,  in  spite  of  all,  Saint  Joseph  heard  my 
prayer,  and  that  M.  de  Civreuse  is  the  savior  and  the 
hero  I  asked  for. 

I  know  very  well  that  he  was  not  coming  to  Erlange, 
and  that  he  did  not  think  of  me,  and  that  his  manner  of 
acting  at  present  is  anything  but  gallant.  But  this  co- 
incidence !  I  asked  for  help,  and  here  suddenly  into  my 
secluded  life  comes  a  young  man,  original,  interesting  if 
not  amiable,  and  exactly  the  kind  of  which  heroes  are 
made.  Is  it  not  really  help  from  heaven  ?  The  ill- 
humor  and  fury  of  my  aunt  are  sure  proofs  of  it,  and 
her  daily  attacks  show  me  that  she  thinks,  as  T  do,  that 
the  liberator  of  Colette  has  come. 


Il8  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

When  I  make  all  sorts  of  excuses  to  mv  poor  statue, 
which  I  have  taken  back,  it  seems  to  me  that  its  eye 
smiles  on  me  as  it  did  before,  and  that  it  says  to  me, 
"  You  see  very  well  that  you  despaired  too  soon,  and  that 
I  did  not  deceive  you  in  the  least  I  "  The  next  minute  I 
say  to  myself  that  I  am  crazy,  and  the  cold  face  of  M.  de 
Civreuse  comes  up  before  me.  He  cares  for  me  just  as 
much  as  he  does  for  my  dog,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
he  is  exasperated  at  the  fate  which  keeps  him  here. 

But  if  it  were  his  destiny,  he  had  to  come,  and  he 
ought  even  to  be  quite  satisfied  to  be  damaged  as  he  is 
— otherwise,  he  might  have  gone  by  ! 

Does  his  appearance  exactly  resemble  my  summer 
dreams?  I  can  hardly  remember,  for  now,  when  I  ti\- 
to  recall  the  picture  of  my  shadowy  hero,  it  is  the  face 
of  Monsieur  Pierre  which  comes  up  before  me.  and  I  do 
not  turn  back  to  the  first  pages  of  my  book  to  see 
whether  I  am  mistaken  or  not,  for  I  think  he  is  very 
well  as  he  is. 

His  forehead,  of  which  one  does  not  see  much  now, 
is  evidently  high  and  wide  ;  his  hair  is  chestnut,  cut 
short,  and  his  Roman  nose  is  rather  too  long,  it  seems 
to  me  ;  his  lips  are  always  tightly  pressed  together,  his 
beard  is  not  exactly  a  beard,  neither  is  it  simply  a  mus- 
tache, and  I  should  very  much  like  to  ask  him  exactly 
what  it  is  called. 

As  to  the  color  of  his  eye — (A  his  eyes,  rather,  for  1 
suppose  the  other  is  just  like  the  one  I  know — it  is 
peculiar,  neither  blue  nor  gray,  and  resembles  nothing 
so  much  as  the  spring-water  in  wiiich  I  used  to  look  at 


THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE.  hq 

myself  last  3ear.  One  sees  every  color  in  it,  even  the 
color  of  the  clouds  that  seem  to  pass  over  it  from  time 
to  time,  for  the  hue  changes  with  his  emotions,  and 
grows  light  or  dark  in  an  instant. 

His  complexion  is  dark  except  where  a  line  divides 
the  forehead  ;  from  there  to  the  hair  the  skin  is  white, 
which  looks  very  queer.  One  might  think  that  the  face 
had  been  painted  all  of  one  tint  up  to  that,  and  that  the 
color  had  then  given  out,  leaving  it  as  it  was. 

His  disposition  is  brusque  ;  he  is  not  very  amiable, 
and  he  seems  like  a  man  so  accustomed  to  do  as  he  likes 
that  the  walls  of  other  people  count  for  very  little  with 
him, 

I  imagined  a  tyrant  who  w^ould  tyrannize  over  all  the 
world,  but  I  fancied  him  softer  toward  me. 

But,  after  all,  when  I  have  dreamed  of  all  this,  I 
realize  perfectly  the  folly  there  is  in  such  an  idea.  Prince 
Charming  never  made  himself  so  little  charming  to 
please  the  lady  of  his  heart ! — and  am  I  not  obliged  to 
perceive  that  Monsieur  de  Civreuse  resembles  a  chained 
mastiff,  a  learned  mastiff,  a  well-educated  mastiff,  under- 
standing the  manners  of  good  society,  but  who,  it  is 
evident,  does  not  like  his  kennel  in  the  least? 

And  could  I  accommodate  myself  to  this  severe 
humor?  It  seems  that  as  if  by  some  spell  all  that  I  do 
and  all  that  I  say  is  exactly  what  I  ought  not  to  do  or 
say,  and  I  give  the  eyebrows  of  my  companion  the 
pleasure  of  constant  gymnastic  exercise — he  is  forced  to 
raise  them  so  often  in  the  lively  astonishment  I  cause 
him.     But  one  certainly  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  every- 


I20  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

thiiii^  when  one  has  waited  eighteen  rears  for  her  liberty 
and  a  little  happiness. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mother  Lancien  seemed  very 
sure  of  what  slic  said  in  i)romisinj^  me  success,  and  she 
has  seen  so  much,  and  I  so  little  ! 


Pierre  to  Jacques. 

Ah,  m)'  friend,  how  well  I  knew  what  you  would 
say,  and  how  perfectly  your  last  letter  is  characteristic 
of  you  ! 

You  take  fire,  you  excite  yourself,  you  build  a  whole 
romance  out  of  nothing,  and  send  it  to  me  by  express, 
even  asking  me  if  you  are  not  too  late,  and  if  your  con- 
gratulations will  arrive  before  or  after  the  ceremonv. 

This  accident  which  laj's  me  low  on  the  highway, 
the  old  chateau  into  which  1  am  carried  insensible,  this 
young  girl  who  watches  over  me  nigiit  and  dav,  water- 
ing my  pillow  wdth  her  tears — all  intoxicate  and  ti-ans- 
port  you  ;  you  see  me  in  love,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  my 
idol — as  much  as  a  man  with  a  broken  leg  can  kneel — 
blessing  the  bad  roads  because  that  solitude  in  such 
company  is  a  joy,  pleased  with  mv  sufferings  because 
they  have  given  me  access  to  Erlange,  and  the  winter 
because  it  makes  our  eagle's  nest  inaccessible  to  the 
envious  and  jealous. 

Ah,  mv  dear  jacciues,  I  have  wot  vour  inflammable 
temperament  nor  your  vivid  imagination  ;  and  you  ought 
to  remember  that  formcrlv.  when  we  went  into  societv, 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  121 

I  had  white  hair  in  comparison  with  your  fanciful  head 
and  wild  caprices. 

While  you,  the  insatiable,  devoured  one  or  even  two 
passions  in  one  evening,  falling  so  violently  in  love  with 
your  partners  that  after  the  ball  you  even  dreamed  of 
marriage,  I  hardly  gave  my  heart  once  a  week,  and  I 
have  even  gone  from  one  Sunday  to  another,  or  a  fort- 
night, without  feeling  a  heart-beat. 

And  now,  when  I  have  quarreled  with  the  whole 
human  race,  with  my  comrades  of  the  boulevards  as  well 
as  society,  when  I  am  satiated  with  all,  you  expect  me  to 
fall  in  love  like  a  school-boy,  and  to  accept  fetters  when 
I  have  just  shaken  off  the  last  burden  !  No,  no ;  and  if 
you  would  like  the  place,  Jacques,  by  the  honor  of  a 
Civreuse,  I  will  give  up  the  whole  to  you  without  regret 
— the  bed  with  columns,  the  plaster  moldings,  and  the 
little  blonde  into  the  bargain. 

Have  you  already  forgotten,  my  poor  friend,  the  two 
years  that  are  just  past?  Evidently  3'ou  have,  for  they 
have  been  by  you  devoted  to  my  interests,  and  with 
your  noble  delicacy  you  have  considered  it  a  crime  to 
remember.  Only,  it  is  not  the  same  for  me,  for  there 
are  certain  things  the  bitterness  of  which  remains  on 
the  lips,  no  matter  what  one  does  to  drive  it  away,  and 
my  experiences  are  among  the  number. 

I  was  so  simple-minded,  you  see,  so  absurdly  confi- 
dent, so  convinced  of  the  truth  of  all  I  was  told  !  I  had 
thirty  intimate  friends,  and  I  believed  all  to  be  true,  all 
devoted  and  sincere. 

I  was  warmly  welcomed  in  twenty  houses  in  Paris ; 


J 22  THE   STORY   OF  COLETTE. 

and,  believing  myself  to  be  received  in  remembrance  of 
my  mother,  I  came  and  went  and  acted  as  though  she 
herself  had  presented  mc,  without  the  slightest  mental 
reservation — tlic  only  person,  it  seems,  who  was  per- 
fectly open  and  sincere. 

Poor  fool!  who  forgot  only  one  thing:  that  all  tiie 
attentions  belonged  to  the  income  of  three  hundred 
thousand  francs,  which,  as  an  orphan,  was  completely  at 
my  own  disposal. 

Then,  one  morning,  the  sudden  ruin — do  you  remem- 
ber? My  banker — ^also  one  of  those  friends — who  had 
put  my  capital  in  such  doubtful  investments  that  he  had 
not  even  dared  consult  me  before  swallowing  it  up,  had 
gone  off  finally  to  America,  and  at  once  my  own  posi- 
tion showed  itself. 

The  telegraph  is  slow  in  comparison  with  the  news 
which  is  carried  from  mouth  to  mouth  !  Four  hours 
after  my  ruin  I  had  become  a  very  small  personage; 
everybody  knew  it,  and  by  the  end  of  the  week  1  was 
forefotten.  Events  follow  each  other  so  quicklv  in 
Paris!  After  my  affair  came  the  fall  of  a  ministry,  a 
private  divorce  case  of  which  all  the  papers  spread  the 
news  with  all  their  might — and  you  can  see  that  the 
wave  which  (overwhelmed  me  was  a  broad  one. 

All  ni}-  intimacy  in  families  came  to  an  end.  Why 
invite  a  man  who  is  not  a  possible  suitor?  And  it  was 
only  then  that  I  perceived  that  in  each  of  these  exclu- 
sive circles  the  daughter  of  the  house  was  invariably 
between  eighteen  and  twenty. 

As  to  my  friends,  Jacques,  they  all  bc-havcd  perfectly  I 


THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE. 


123 


There  was  not  one  of  them  who  would  not  cross  the 
street  or  the  boulevard  to  come  and  take  my  hand  on 
seeing  me  on  the  other  sidewalk,  not  one  who  did  not 
express  his  sympathy. 

"  Poor  Civreuse  !     What  bad  luck  !  " 

"What  a  wretch  D is!     He  is  expelled  from  the 

Bourse,  you  know.  By-the-way,  will  your  sale  take 
place  at  the  Hotel  Drouot  ?  The  season  is  excellent ; 
that's  a  good  thing." 

"  What  a  descent,  poor  fellow !  On  my  word,  it  is 
enough  to  disgust  a  man,  and  keep  him  from  making 
deposits  anywhere  but  in  his  mattress!" 

It  is  very  nice,  all  that,  and  it  went  to  my  heart.  But 
at  the  end  of  two  weeks  my  sale  was  over,  my  entresol 
rented,  I  had  no  more  Mondays — you  know  my  recep- 
tions when  I  kept  open  table  ?  I  had  given  up  supping 
at  the  Cafe  Anglais  ;  and,  worse  than  all,  I  had  crossed 
the  Seine ! 

Does  any  one  look  for  a  needle  in  a  hay -stack,  or  for 
a  man  who  lodges  near  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  ?  Hon- 
estly, no  !  and  in  less  than  two  weeks  I  had  that  absolute 
peace  dreamed  of  by  sufferers,  but  which  in  a  great 
cit}',  where  one  has  lived  a  happy  life,  is  rather  isolation 
than  repose. 

My  story  might  have  ended  there,  and  a  full  stop 
put,  unless,  in  a  parenthesis,  any  one  wanted  to  tell  my 
struggle  with  poverty,  if  by  good  fortune,  besides  my 
thirty  intimate  friends,  I  had  not  had  another,  the  thirty- 
first,  who,  by-the-way,  I  had  never  put  in  the  heap  with 
the  others. 


124 


THE   SrORY  OF  COLETTE. 


More  skillful  than  the  rest,  this  (jne  found  out  my 
retreat,  and,  once  inside  the  place,  boldly  opened  my 
strong-box,  and,  finding  it  empty  as  he  expected.  i)ut 
his  arm  through  mine  and  carried  me  off  to  his  home, 
to  share  his  life  with  him  for  two  whole  years. 

And  it  was  not  only  the  offer,  friend  Jacques — allow 
me  to  say  it  for  once  to  your  face,  since  I  have  the 
chance — it  was  making  it  in  such  a  manner,  that  I  ac- 
cepted at  once,  and  that  I  have  lived  a  parasite  with  vou 
all  this  time  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

Do  not  protest !  it  was  really  as  a  parasite,  for  you 
know  as  well  as  1  do  what  is  paid  for  labor  to  people 
who  seek  places  because  they  need  them,  without  having 
gone  through  the  administrative  routine  which  is  the 
glory  of  our  France. 

I  can  not  remember  exactlv  what  it  was  I  gained  ; 
but  if  during  these  days  of  trouble  I  paid  the  fourth 
part  of  my  rent  and  my  washing,  it  was  because  things 
were  made  cheaper  for  me,  1  am  sure  ! 

What  trade  could  I  take  up  ?  While  I  was  only  an 
amateur,  I  was  enough  of  an  artist  to  get  mv  pictures 
into  the  Salon;  but  as  soon  as  it  was  known  that  I 
needed  t(j  sell,  I  became  such  a  poor  dauber  that  I 
could  not  get  fifty  francs  for  a  picture  six  yards  long ! 
As  for  music,  it  was  not  to  be  sj>okcn  of.  To  plav  the 
guitar  under  balconies  was  charming,  but  as  a  professor, 
the  only  thing  I  would  have  needed  was  jnipils. 

The  choice  remained  to  me  of  sui)cTnuincraiv  in  the 
department  of  finance — three  years  of  hopes  and  ambi- 
tious dreams,  which  one  indulges  in  while  thinking  of 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


125 


the  fifteen  hundred  francs  that  will  crown  this  novitiate ; 
or  diplomacy  and  consulships,  without  the  possibility  of 
buying  myself  gloves  or  patent-leather  shoes,  which  arc 
the  sinews  of  war  in  the  social  struggle ;  finally,  there 
was  journalism. 

Besides  this,  when  one  has  refused  to  sell  one's  name 
to  founders  of  doubtful  companies,  tell  me,  if  you  can, 
how  an  honest  man  can  find  employment  in  Paris  ? 

I  thought  of  emigrating,  and  without  you  it  is  most 
probable  that  I  would  have  followed  the  man  who  had 
cheated  me  beyond  the  seas. 
But  you  were  there,  and  I 
stayed,  with  my  heart  a  little 
embittered,  I  confess,  by  all  I 
had  seen,  but  far  from  imagin- 
ing the  complete  change  that 
awaited  me,  and  the  study  from 
life  that  would  enable  me  to 
complete  from  life  the  portrait 
of  the  human  animal. 

After  all,  it  was  only  neces- 
sary for  me  to  open  the   pages  of  La  Rochefoucauld, 
and  I  should  have  found  it  all  already  set  forth.     But 
who  believes  La  Rochefoucauld  before  having  experi- 
enced for  himself  his  bitter  wisdom  ? 

In  short,  I  do  not  need  to  recall  to  you  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  comedy  that  came  to  me  one  fine  morning. 
The  wheel  had  gone  round,  and  Dame  Fortune  gave  me 
with  one  hand  what  she  had  taken  with  the  other.  My 
old    rascal,    richer    than    ever,    died    suddenly,    leaving 


126  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

neither  will  nor  children,  and  his  petroleum-wells, 
eagerly  claimed  by  all  his  dupes,  gave  each  one  of  us 
our  rights.  Our  claims  were  good,  and  we  were  paid 
even  the  interest  on  the  moncv — involuntary  savings 
which  we  had  made  during  the  past  two  years. 

Three  days  after — do  you  remember,  Jacques? — con- 
gratulations and  cards  rained  on  us,  and  I  was  again  in 
possession  of  all  my  excellent  friends.  It  was  my  own 
fault  if  I  could  not  think  it  all  a  bad  dream.  I  was 
awake,  and  all  that  1  had  believed  lost  came  back  by  the 
same  door — gold  and  friendship. 

But  this  was  too  much  !  With  a  little  patience,  per. 
haps,  I  could  have  been  deceived.  But  in  twenty-four 
hours  to  take  up  life  just  where  I  had  left  it — a  break- 
fast accepted  two  years  before  that  I  was  reminded  of; 
a  waltz  of  two  years  back  grown  yellow  on  the  card 
that  they  wanted  me  to  recall — it  was  at  once  un- 
worthy and  grotesque,  and  I  laughed,  disgusted  at 
heart. 

Simply  to  refuse  everything  was  too  little.  I  had 
had  my  eyes  opened,  had  become  suspicious,  cvnical, 
and  with  malicious  pleasure  I  entered  into  all  combina- 
tions, flattered  all  hopes,  fostered  all  ambitions,  so  as  to 
make  the  disappointment  greater  the  dav  when  I  should 
snap  at  once  the  threads  of  all  the  i)uppets  I  held  in  mv 
hand. 

Then,  sore,  weary,  forcibly  separated  from  you  by 
the  illness  of  your  uncle  and  the  secluded  winter  it  ne- 
cessitated for  you,  hnding  too  feeble  all  words  which 
express  hatred    of    the  human  race,   I    was  seized   with 


THE    STORY    OF   COLETTE.  127 

the  desire  to  hear  lying  in  Chinese,  in  Arabian,  in  Hin- 
dostani,  as  I  had  heard  it  in  French,  so  as  to  see  for  m}'-- 
self  whether  my  countr}-  is  in  advance  of  its  contempo- 
raries, or  behind  them. 

And  this  is  the  moment  you  choose  to  speak  to  me 
of  love,  of  household  peace,  and  the  sweet  confidence 
which  charms  its  hours  ! 

My  poor  Jacques,  you  are  a  great  fool,  and,  if  Made- 
moiselle d'Erlange  is  no  worse  than  other  women — 
which  is  not  certain — she  is  at  least  like  all  the  rest, 
which  is  enough  to  drive  me  away. 

The  proof  you  use  to  convince  me  that  I  am  in  love, 
amused  me  at  least : 

"  You  say  that  you  are  always  with  her,  you  speak 
to  her,  you  look  at  her,  you  call  her  a  blonde  fairy  ;  be 
frank,  Pierre- --confess  that  you  are  in  love !  " 

That  1  may  not  be  with  her,  have  I  legs  to  fly  from 
her?  Do  you  want  me  to  turn  my  head  away  when  I 
speak  to  her  ?  And  need  you  see  in  the  fancies  of  my 
first  awakening  anything  more  than  the  ordinary  humor 
of  travelers  recounting  their  adventures  ? 

As  for  her  being  blonde,  my  friend,  I  can  not  help 
it ;  she  is  blonde,  and  I  have  told  you  so  plainly,  think- 
ing no  evil.  This  brings  me  back  to  your  complaints 
on  the  subject  of  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  :  "  You  oblige 
me  to  imagine  her  for  myself,"  you  write  ;  "  except  her 
hair,  not  a  bit  of  description,  and  you  write  pages  about 
the  tapestry,  the  crumbling  towers — in  fact,  all  sorts  of 
nonsense.  I  have  the  frame,  I  know  it  by  heart.  Put 
the  Greuze  in  it,  I  beg  you." 


128  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

Here  it  is,  and  sincere,  with  a  sincerit)'  which  my  im- 
partial e3es  can  guarantee  to  be  true. 

Mademoiselle  Colette  is  rather  small,  or,  if  not  so  re- 
ally, appears  so.  Does  this  come  {xoxw  her  wonderfully 
slender  waist,  from  her  head  which  is  small,  like  that  (jf 
a  Greek  statue,  or  from  the  quickness  and  multiplicity 
of  her  movements?  I  can  not  tell.  But  it  is  certain 
that,  standing — in  the  rare  moments  when  she  is  still — 
she  rises  up  straight  and  high,  like  a  swaying  young 
birch-tree,  and  I  look  at  her  in  surprise.  Whence  has 
she  taken  that  extra  height  ? 

Then  some  new  idea  seizes  her :  she  starts  off  to  the 
right  or  left  with  her  gliding  step,  and  is  only  an  elf 
who  has  escaped  from  her  home  in  the  earlv  morning, 
and  has  come  to  visit  the  world.  Now  you  know,  my 
friend,  elves  have  neither  stature  nor  age. 

Her  nose  is  short,  delicate,  and  a  little  saucy  ;  the 
lower  part  of  the  face  is  pretty,  plump  like  a  ripe  fruit, 
and  her  complexion  is  dark  and  rich. 

Do  not  read  yellow — we  are  not  in  Cambodia ;  she 
has  a  transparent  skin,  beneath  which  a  ray  of  sunlight 
is  always  shining.  She  has  a  high  forehead,  a  well- 
made  mouth  ;  and  as  for  her  eyes,  I  tell  you  fnmkly 
that  they  are  superb;  you  ought  to  understand  this 
properly,  but  you  will  take  it  in  the  wrong  sense,  I  am 
sure,  and  you  will  see  flames  and  passion  where  there  is 
only  a  conscientious  description,  as  in  a  passport  ;  for 
even  a  passport  would  note  them,  I  am  sure,  and  j)ut 
them  down  as  "  special  marks,"  so  little  do  they  resem- 
ble what  (jne  usually  sees. 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


129 


Large,  superbly  shaped — I  may  as  well  give  you  the 
whole  truth  this  evening,  for  you  would  call  for  it  to- 
morrow— these  eyes  are  the  deepest  black,  and  from 
their  depths  come  an  unceasing  flash. 

When  the  eyelid  is  lowered,  it  bears  the  calm  of  an 
infant  asleep  ;  raised,  it  is  overpowering,  and  it  seems  as 
though  some  inner  light  were  illuminating  the  burning 
iris. 

Do  black  diamonds  exist  ?  I  do  not  know,  though  I 
have  often  heard  them  spoken  of,  but  I  think  I  know 
now  what  they  must  be  like. 

The  distinctive  characteristic  of  the  look  is  a  mobil- 
ity of  expression  the  variety  of  which  nothing  can  de- 
scribe, and  her  general  vivacity  shows  itself  in  that. 
One  really  seems  to  see  ideas  pass  over  the  face,  and 
these  great  eyes,  where  thoughts  can  be  read  as  in  a 
book,  are  ready  to  betray  her. 

Her  eyebrows  are  clear  and  finely  penciled.  They 
are  drawn  with  one  stroke  of  the  brush. 

Finally,  to  complete  this  mixture  of  grace  and  mal- 
ice, imagine  on  the  left  side  above  the  lip  a  very  small 
dimple,  lifting  a  corner  of  the  mouth  so  that  it  only 
smiles  on  one  side  at  a  time,  as  if  on  the  sly,  and  giving 
her  an  inexpressible  look  of  gayety. 

I  will  not  tell  you  that  Mademoiselle  Colette  has 
the  hands  and  feet  of  a  child,  because  to  me  such 
a  comparison  seems  absurd.  Would  you  like  to 
finish  the  portrait  of  a  slender  young  girl  with  two 
fat  round  feet  as  wide  as  they  are  long,  and  little 
baby  hands   full   of  dimples  ?     It   makes  me  shudder ! 


130  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

But  the  D'Krlanf^es  have  good  bh)ocl,  and  it  shows 
itself. 

To  sum  up.  she  is  an  original  person,  remarkable  in 
many  ways.  I  am  sure  you  would  admire  her  im- 
mensely, and  that  you  would  write  a  sonnet  to  her 
every  evening.  An  artist  would  be  dumb  with  delight 
before  her,  only  he  could  not  paint  her  as  she  is.  How- 
ever, some  day  I  will  ask  her  permission  to  trv,  and  the 
first  adventure  of  my  journey  shall  occui)v  the  first 
page  of  my  album. 

"  Well !  what  more  ?  "  I  hear  you  sa}-.  Well,  is  one 
obliged  to  fall  in  love  with  all  that  is  beautiful  ?  I  de- 
scribe her  to  you  as  an  artist  would,  as  1  shall  describe 
in  three  months'  time  the  palaces,  lotus-flowers,  and 
almchs — if  so  it  be  that  almehs  exist  elsewhere  than  in 
ballets;  but  if  you  are  going  to  fancy  a  new  romance 
with  each  new  face  which  I  present  to  you,  I  shall  be 
reduced  to  writing  to  you  in  negro  style : 

"  Good  little  traveler  arrived  well.  Had  good  pas- 
sage. He  not  had  sea-sickness.  Found  nice  hut  to  live 
in.     Embrace  little  white  brother." 

One  must  take  the  world  as  it  is,  my  friend  ;  nobody 
in  it  is  worth  much  when  I  have  put  you  and  myself  on 
one  side,  for  we  are  too  good  for  the  dolls  whom  we 
know,  doting  upon  equipages,  diamonds,  and  dresses. 
So  I  have  long  ago  made  a  vow  of  celibacy  in  your 
name  and  mine.  We  suffice  for  each  other.  Sign  the 
contract,  and  give  up  romance. 

As  for  your  delicate  advice  on  the  subject  of  Made- 
moiselle Colette,  be  at   case,  moralist  :  if   I   am   bronjrc, 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


131 


she  is  crystal,  and  I  do  not  think  my  appearance  is 
likely  to  affect  her.  And,  besides,  what  do  you  suppose 
a  creature  who  laughs  all  day  can  know  of  sentiment? 
She  is  not  a  woman  ;  she  is  a  bell  always  in  motion,  and 
one  might  suppose  that  the  life  we  lead  is  the  most 
amusing  thing  possible. 

You  know  what  she  really  is ;  and  just  now,  when 
Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  was  dancing  about  the  room, 
giving  herself  up  to  the  little  skips  and  jumps  that  are 
habitual  to  her,  dusting  china  and  fancy  articles,  which 
I,  following  her  listlessly  with  my  eye  and  listening  to 
her  incessant  humming,  could  not  help  questioning  her 
about — 

"  What  is  it,"  I  asked,  "  that  makes  you  so  gay,  and 
why  have  you  always  a  smile  on  your  lips  ?  " 

"  My  good  spirits  !  "  she  answered.  "  Do  I  trouble 
you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all  ;  only  you  astonish  me,  that  is  all." 

"  That  is  certainly  not  much  like  you,"  she  answered, 
quickly.  "  And  if  I  may  inquire  in  my  turn,  why  do 
you  never  laugh  ?  " 

"  Just  now,  on  account  of  my  suffering,"  I  replied, 
dryly.  Then,  as  I  was  ashamed  of  this  barefaced  false- 
hood, and  above  all  of  the  bad  humor  which  the  remem- 
brance of  the  past  gave  me,  I  continued,  "  But  I  sup- 
pose that  my  humor  is  generally  the  opposite  of  yours." 

She  raised  her  eyes,  which  had  been  hidden,  with  a 
quick  look,  and  said  : 

"  Bad  humor,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  bad,  doubtless ;  at    least   for  those  who    look 


132  TlfE   STORY  OF   COLETTE. 

upon  laughing-  as  the  sign  of  an  amiable  disposition,  and 
not  as  a  grimace  or  a  simple  family  contortion,  confirm- 
ing the  opinion  of  those  who  think  we  descend  from 
monkeys." 

**  From  monkeys  !  "  She  drew  back  with  a  fright- 
ened gesture,  taking  in  at  a  rapid  glance  her  hands  and 
her  whole  person.  "  I  never  heard  that  I  Is  it  true  ? 
How  do  they  know  ?"  Then,  as  she  saw  me  shake  my 
head  :  "  No,  no,  I  am  glad,"  she  continued,  before  I 
could  edge  in  a  word  ;  "  it  would  be  funny,  but  so  dis- 
gusting. Just  think  what  one  would  feel  on  seeing  a 
baboon  in  a  cage  and  saying  to  one's  self  that  he  ought 
to  be  venerated  as  an  ancestor  !  It  is  quite  enough  to 
look  like  him  when  one  laughs." 

She  ran  to  a  glass,  which  was  hung  so  high  that 
she  had  to  mount  on  a  table,  and,  seeing  her  dimple 
come — 

"  It  is  very  possible,  after  all,"  she  said,  philosophic- 
ally, "  that  it  is  a  contortion,  but  it  does  one  good  all  the 
same."  And  she  began  laughing  more  than  ever  in 
proof  of  what  she  had  said,  and  jumped  down  with  the 
bound  of  a  gazelle,  without  noise  or  effort. 

As  you  see,  her  credulity,  like  her  gavetv.  is  that  of 
a  child,  and  she  did  not  get  over  her  amusement  for 
some  minutes ;  then,  as  1  remained  perfectly  serious,  she 
sat  down,  calmed  herself,  and  resumed  in  a  lower  tone: 

"  Perhaps,  when  one  is  very  much  older  and  wiser, 
one  does  not  care  for  it  any  more  ;  but  I  have  not  come 
to  that  yet." 

This  is  too  much,  Jacques  !     Does  she  take  me  for  a 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


133 


patriarch  ?  Have  you  seen  that  I  am  getting-  old,  or 
showing  signs  of  age  ? 

So  you  see  you  need  not  be  uneasy,  or  think  there  is 
peril  around  me. 

I  look  upon  her  as  a  thoughtless  child,  as  I  have  told 
you  ;  and  she,  on  her  side,  considers  me  so  wise  and  re- 
spectable that  she  nearly  puts  me  in  the  same  category 
with  her  grandfather,  the  baboon.  !So  we  are  both 
safe. 

And  now,  my  good  Jacques,  give  up  inventing 
romances,  and  sleep  without  dreams  ;  my  little  girl  and 
I  wish  you  good-night. 

But  look  out  for  yourself,  my  friend  ;  you  see  how 
quickly  old  age  creeps  over  us,  and  some  fine  day  it  will 
take  3'ou  unawares. 

You  who  are  so  old,  so  old  ! 

Thev  are  going  to  take  off  m}-  bandage  this  evening. 
I  wonder  how  my  wound  will  look  ?  1  am  a  little  anx- 
ious about  it,  I  confess. 

If  the  scar  is  honorable,  I  will  bear  it ;  but  if  there 
is  a  big  rouhd  hole  showing  the  mark  of  the  rod  or 
of  the  pedestal,  1  will  call  Mademoiselle  Colette  and 
her  executioner  to  answer  for  it.  Zounds  !  one  has 
his  small  vanities,  no  matter  how  old  he  is  ! 

April  J 2th. 
To  say  that  my   intimacy  with    M.  de  Civrcuse  in- 
creases— no,  it  is  just  the  same  to-day  as  it  was  yester- 
day.    He  is  just  the  same  now  as  he  was  when  he  first 
came  to  himself — polite  as  a  king,  but  peevish  as  a  bear, 


134 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


and  sarcastic    in    proportion,  and  our  slii^litcst  conver- 
sations are  skirmishes. 

••  W'hv  arc  vou  all  the  time  squabbling-  with  your 
gentleman  ?  "  Benoite  said  to 
nie  yesterday  ;  "  it  is  not  good 
f(jr  him,  you  know." 

"  What  can  I  do,  you  dear 
old  thing?"  I  answered  ;  '*  he 
sees  red  and  1  white.  1  can 
not  let  him  say  things  that 
are  false,  and  approve  just  be- 
cause he  is  ill,  when  he  takes 
up  everything  I  say  so  quickly. 
It  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

It  is  true  that  every  morn- 
ing and  every  evening  I  tell 
myself  that  if  I  were  different  I  would  please  him 
better,  and  I  vow  that  I  will  ciiangc  the  next  day  ;  but 
as  soon  as  I  am  in  the  room  and  hear  the  calm  tone  in 
which  he  criticises  indifferently  men  and  things,  I  am 
vexed  in  spite  of  myself,  and  I  answer  hinT  with  all  the 
vivacity  and  indignation  that  I  feel.  Or,  when  I  am 
seated  before  the  fire,  listening  to  the  melting  snow  as  it 
drips  from  the  broken  gutters  with  a  loud  noise,  and  I 
see  in  the  back  of  the  room  his  dark  face,  and  hear  the 
full  voice  that  answers  or  questions  me,  in  the  midst 
of  this  April  sun  which  glances  through  the  window, 
I  feel  such  bursts  (jf  joy  that  I  begin  to  laugh  without 
any  reason,  and  am  happy,  hapjiy  ! 

All  this  seems  absurd    to    M.    de    Civreusc,  and    he 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


135 


launches  out  as  he  did  yesterday,  giving  himself  much 
trouble  to  prove  to  me  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  proud 
of,  that  all  this  gayety  is  only  a  family  inheritance  and 
past  education,  and  that  we  laugh  as  monkeys  make 
grimaces,  and  nothing  else. 

Was  it  to  frighten  me  that  he  said  it,  or  did  he  half 
believe  it  ?  I  never  make  out  more  than  half  the  truth 
of  the  things  he  speaks  of — and  if  it  is  true,  what  can 
I  do  about  it?  Must  I  deprive  myself  of  the  pleasure 
of  laughing  and  moving  about,  because  of  an  accidental 
or  even  natural  resemblance ;  and  ought  I  to  stop  crack- 
ing nuts  with  my  teeth  and  jumping  over  obstacles  in 
two  or  three  bounds  ?  This  is  much  more  like  the 
monke3'S. 

He  is  a  pedant,  and  we  will  leave  him  to  his  criti- 
cisms, if  he  goes  on  like  this,  for  I  have  forgotten  to  warn 
him,  and  to  make  the  condition  with  my  saint  in  the 
good  days  when  I  prayed  to  him  and  we  understood 
each  other  about  the  personal  appearance  of  my  libera- 
tor ;  but  Colette  must  be  loved  as  she  is,  with  her  dog, 
her  faults,  her  laugh,  her  peculiar  ideas,  and  her  sash 
tied  wrong  side  out,  or  she  will  return  to  her  own  affairs, 
and  continue  to  hunt  for  stars  until  she  finds  a  good  and 
real  one  which  has  not  quenched  all  its  rays  in  water 
before  coming  to  her. 

The  truth  is,  that  I  am  furious  —  furious  not  only 
that  M.  de  Civreuse  does  not  find  me  to  his  liking, 
and  thinks  me  ugly,  foolish,  and  I  do  not  know  what 
besides,  but  furious,  above  all,  because,  in  spite  of  all  I 
can  do,  I  can  not  pay  him  in  his  own  coin. 


136  THE    STORY   OF  COLETTE. 

Sometimes  I  am  ready  to  run  to  him  and  declare 
that,  if  his  opinion  of  me  is  not  flattering,  mine  of  him 
is  just  the  same ;  but  I  mistrust  my  tongue.  Really,  I 
do  not  think  so  at  all ;  and  what  if  my  invectives  should 
turn  to  compliments?  It  is  frightful  to  think  of  I  1  do 
not  know  how  one  can  learn  to  say  in  the  same  tone 
what  one  thinks  and  what  one  does  not  believe  the  first 
word  of ;  and  his  ear  is  too  quick  not  to  know  the  dif- 
ference. 

So  I  am  silent,  and  when  I  get  back  to  my  room, 
with  all  the  doors  closed,  I  make  amends  by  roughly 
questioning  my  imagination  and  my  heart. 

"Listen,"  I  say  to  them  face  to  face,  "explain  vour- 
selves.  Where  do  this  folly  and  this  infatuation  come 
from  ? 

"  What  has  this  man  done  for  you  ?  He  is  not 
amiable,  hardly  polite,  certainly  less  handsome  than  we 
are,  and  it  is  plain  that  we  do  not  suit  him. 

"  What  effort  does  he  make  to  conceal  it  fi-om  you  ? 
Has  he  attempted  a  tender  or  a  gallant  word  in  three 
weeks  —  even  a  word  of  two  syllables  with  as  little 
meaning  as  a  poor  little  sigh?  Docs  one  of  vou 
know  more  about  it  than  I  do  ?     Speak  !  " 

Neither  of  them  says  nuich,  but  their  answer,  though 
short,  is  decisive.     "  They  like  him  all  the  same." 

And  that  is  why  1  find  myself  thinking  of  M.  de 
Civreuse  a  little,  often  —  always,  I  think — vet  without 
being  completely  satisfied  with  him.  antl  wiihout  ex- 
actly understanding  what  he  has  in  the  depths  of  his 
heart. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


137 


Sometimes  I  wonder,  when  I  see  the  astonished 
look  with  which  he  follows  my  slightest  word,  if  he 
does  not,  like  me,  come  from  an  old  chateau  in  ruins, 
where  the  ditches  and  portcullis  have  kept  him  until 
now  from  the  sight  of  women,  as  my  battlements  have 
preserved  me  from  all  contact  with  human  beings. 

But,  in  that  case,  he  must  have  crossed  his  draw- 
bridge long  ago,  for  his  knowledge  of  human  nature,  if 
not  kindly,  is  extensive,  and  he  knows  many  things 
whose  very  names  1  am  ignorant  of.  For  that  reason 
we  have  ridiculous  conversations,  during  which  I  an- 
swer without  knowing  what  I  say,  during  which  we 
quarrel  without  my  comprehending  exactly  why,  and 
during  which  I  am  not  quite  certain  that  he  himself 
knows  what  he  wants. 

Yesterday,  for  instance,  we  spoke  of  people  in  so- 
ciety. I  told  him  how  little  I  knew  outside  of  Erlange, 
and  begged  him  to  tell  me  what  men  are,  and  what  they 
do  outside  of  my  world. 

Then  he  began,  but  described  what  I  asked  in  such 
a  way  that  I  listened  stupefied  to  hear  him  call  all  men 
rogues  and  wretches.  Is  it  a  joke,  or  must  one  really 
believe  it  ?  If  so,  one  would  never  dare  to  put  one 
foot  before  the  other  :  there  an  ambush,  here  a  snare, 
farther  on  a  mine  that  only  waits  your  pressure  to  ex- 
plode— these  are  the  usual  things,  according  to  him, 
and  on  the  outside  of  all  flowers,  smiles,  and  engaging 
words. 

Is  it  literally  true,  and  is  he  speaking  of  real  mines 
full  of  powder?      I  do  not  know;  at  the  beginning  I 


138  THE    STOKY  OF  COLETTE. 

listened  quietly,  but  afterward  1  could  not  hel]»  pro- 
testing. 

"In  this  case,"  I  cried,  "your  \yorld  is  a  robbers' den  !  " 

To  \yhich  he  calmly  rej)lied  : 

"  It  certainly  resembles  one  very  much." 

And  when  I  protested,  getting  indignant,  and  asking 
if  he  were  sure  of  what  he  said — 

"  I  speak  of  it  as  a  traveler  does  of  the  place  where 
his  watch  and  purse  have  been  taken  from  him,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "  that  is  all." 

Has  he  really  been  robbed  ?  1  could  not  help  ask- 
ing him  further  if  it  were  so,  and  without  emotion,  and 
dryly  enough,  he  answered  : 

"  Of  mv  faith  and  confidence,  yes,  mademoiselle. 
Do  you  not  think  that  they  are  as  {precious  as  doubloons 
and  a  valise  ?  " 

Such  is  my  guest,  and  such  are  his  })eculiarities.  In 
such  a  case,  what  can  I  answer?  I  am  dunifounded, 
and  could  understand  his  conversation  mt)re  easily  if 
he  chose  to  speak  Chinese. 

In  conclusion,  he  seems  to  me  to  have  few  illusions. 
If  I  have  been  drowning  mvself  in  chimeras  and  dreams 
for  eighteen  years,  1  think  1  have  come  to  the  right 
port  at  last. 

He  makes  no  exceptions — we  are  no  better  than 
others  ;  and  as  I  put  my  se.\  in  view,  hoping  for  a  court- 
eous word  for  women — 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "each  one  has  his  instincts.  Wolves 
bite,  tigers  flv  at  vou  with  their  claws!  Do  you  think 
one  is  much  better  than  another?" 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  I^g 

Really,  it  is  not  right  to  decide  things  in  this  cold- 
blooded way,  and  I  am  sure  that  God,  who  sees  into 
our  hearts,  does  not. 

I  was  wild  to  stop  him,  or  at  least  to  embarrass  him  ; 
so,  planting  myself  directh'  in  front  of  him,  I  said : 

"  And  I,  whom  you  do  not  know  —  what  am  I, 
then  ?  " 

"  In  bud  or  in  flower,"  said  he,  with  a  half-smile,  "  I 
can  not  say  which,  but  I  am  sure  that  all  the  instincts 
are  there." 

Reall}',  I  could  have  beaten  him  ;  so,  not  knowing 
how  to  prove  my  point — 

"  And  Monsieur  Jacques  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Jacques ! "  and  instantly  changing  his  tone — 
"Jacques!  he  has  all  the  delicacy,  all  the  goodness,  all 
the  courage  on  earth  united  in  one  man !  " 

"Then  he  is  an  exception,"  said  I,  ironically. 

"  Precisely  ;  the  exception  that  confirms  the  rule." 

"  What  does  that  mean?" 

"  Oh,  in  truth,  no  great  thing ;  it  is  a  thing  to  say,  a 
much-used  phrase." 

"  Very  well,"  I  cried  in  bad  humor  ;  "  it  should  be 
caught  and  put  in  a  cage  ;  it  has  no  sense." 

I  knew  very  well  that  I  spoke  foolishly  ;  but  I  was 
vexed,  I  did  not  know  wh3^ 

M.  de  Civreuse  laughed  without  answering,  and, 
beginning  where  he  left  off,  resumed  the  praises  of  his 
friend.  He  had  raised  himself  in  bed,  he  spoke  quickly  ; 
it  seemed  as  if  he  had  a  second  tongue,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  saw  him  animated. 


I40 


TJIE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


And  he  was  interesting,  this  Jacques — good  and  hand- 
some !  Really,  I  got  to  liking  him.  It  seemed  as  though 
I  were  having  one  of  those  kingdoms  in  fairy-land  de- 
scribed to  me — where  everything  is  perfect,  the  streams 
of  sirup,  the  rocks  of  candied  sugar,  and  for  hot  days  a 
gentle  shower  of  rain  perfumed 
with  vanilla  !  So,  when  Monsieur 
Pierre  lay  back  on  his  pillow  with 
a  satisfied  air — 

"  Well !  "  I  exclaimed  with  con- 
viction, "  I  feel  that  I  should  like 
your  friend  very  much." 

On  which  he  turned  sharply, 
and,  scowling  with  his  terrible 
eyebrows,  looked  me  full  in  the 
face. 

"  I   beg  you  to  believe,  made- 
moiselle," he  said,  in  his  most  dis- 
asrreeable   tone,  "  that   it   would   make  him   proud  and 
happy." 

And  I,  without  reflecting  a  second,  replied  in  turn, 
not  less  sharply  : 

"  Yes,  doubtless  ;  not  every  one  is  liked  who  wishes 
to  be." 

After  that  there  was  silence — a  heavy,  threatening 
silence. 

Can  anvthing  be  more  singular  than  such  a  character, 
and  is  there  any  explanation  for(nir  conversation?  This 
is  a  sample  of  our  usual  talks,  and  1  do  not  know  why, 
but  three  times  out  of  four  they  end  in  tlisputes. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  j^I 

Still,  could  I  have  done  otherwise  this  time  ?  After 
having  borne  his  gallant  classification  which  put  me 
among  wolves,  if  I  were  not  among  the  tigers,  I  agreed 
with  his  praises  of  his  friend,  and  he  was  angry  at 
once. 

His  face  turned  toward  the  wall,  as  indifferent  to  all 
about  him  as  if  he  came  from  the  moon,  M.  de  Civreuse 
began  to  whistle  a  gay  march,  drumming  an  accompani- 
ment with  his  fingers  on  the  bed-spread. 

I,  tired  already  of  this  silence,  moved  about,  trying 
to  think  of  some  way  to  begin  the  conversation  again, 
and  biting  my  nails  one  after  the  other.  But  that 
made  less  noise  than  the  march,  and  in  spite  of  myself  I 
followed  the  da  capo  movement,  the  rhythm  of  which 
made  me  beat  time  without  knowing  it.  "  La — la — la, 
la,  la,  la !  "  We  could  not  go  on  like  that ;  besides,  1  felt 
like  doing  some  mischief.  "  The  third  time  it  is  re- 
peated, I  will  speak,"  I  said  to  myself.  And  as  the  third 
came  before  I  had  an  idea  in  my  head,  I  pulled  the  cross- 
piece  of  the  table  with  my  foot,  and  over  it  went,  with 
all  that  was  on  it,  making  a  frightful  noise  !  I  had  mis- 
calculated the  absolute  coolness  of  M.  Pierre.  He  quiet- 
ly finished  his  tune  without  moving,  and  as  I  murmured 
confusedly — 

"  It  is  the  table — I  caught  my  foot  in  it — " 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said. 

The  disaster  had  to  be  repaired.  A  cup  full  of  some- 
thing had  been  spilled  in  the  fall. 

"  Lick  it,  good  dog,"  said  I  to  "  One,"  showing  him 
the  liquid. 


142 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


At  last  M.  dc  Civrcusc  st<3j)pccl,  and,  after  hx^king  at 
what  we  were  doing — 

"  It  is  the  cup  which  had  morphine  in  it."  he  said, 
quietly  ;  "  he  will  sleep  until  to-morrow."  And  he  jjre- 
pared  to  resume  his  march  ! 

But  that  was  not  what  1  wanted.  1  replied  that  he 
was  mistaken.  The  contradiction  stopped  him  at  once  ; 
he  turned  to  me  to  prove  that  I  was  wrong,  and  we  were 
off  again. 

Such  is  a  sample  of  our  intercourse ;  the  flower  of 
gallantry  is  certainly  lacking,  but  I  find  great  pleasure  in 
it.  Further,  nothing  vexes  me,  nothing  wounds  me,  and 
my  angry  feelings  are  so  quickly  appeased  that  in  the 
evening,  when  I  am  back  in  my  own  room,  and  I  hunt  in 
the  ashes  for  a  smoldering  spark  of  bitterness,  all  my 
remembrances  of  the  day  burst  up  like  fire-works,  and 
rockets  of  joy  and  pleasure  come  instead. 

Still,  1  gain  nothing — 1  feel  it.  But,  in  the  veiled  and 
distant  future,  1  dream  of  revenge,  and  1  laugh  to  myself 
at  the  prospect. 

Oh,  M.  dc  Civreuse,  the  day  when  you  fall  at  my  feet, 
how  I  will  leave  you  there,  and  how  you  will  regret  the 
lost  time  while  you  anxiously  wait  for  the  smiles  you 
might  have  now  ! 

Often,  however,  he  speaks  to  me  of  my  life  at  Er- 
lange,  of  my  convent,  of  my  aimt.  Yesterday  1  even 
thought  he  was  going  to  question  me  about  my  studies 
— a  little  examination  in  history  and  geography.  I 
should  certainly  not  have  shone  in  it. 

Tn  my  turn,  I  (juestion  him  about  his  journey.    What 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  i^j 

fine  things  he  will  say  and  do !  To  go  everywhere  that 
fancy  takes  him  ;  to  ask  nobody's  advice  ;  to  hunt  ele- 
phants as  easily  as  here  sparrows  are  taken  with  bird- 
lime ;  to  climb  mountains  on  the  top  of  which  one  has 
one's  head  above  the  clouds  and  one's  feet  hidden  in 
them ;  to  row  on  the  Ganges,  a  great  sacred  river — 
which  would  be  like  a  river  of  holy  water  with  us — 
where  sometimes  one  meets  crocodiles  as  long  as  boats, 
and  sometimes  dead  Indians  who  float  down  wnth  the 
current  to  go  to  paradise,  for  it  is  the  road,  it  appears, 
and  that  the  manner  of  burial  there !  To  travel  in  a 
palanquin,  and  to  find  every  morning,  in  the  shells  of 
the  oysters  one  is  eating  for  breakfast,  pearls  enough 
for  a  necklace — w^hat  a  dream,  what  a  life ! 

I  had  only  one  cry  in  hearing  about  it,  a  silent  cry, 
be  it  understood  :  "  Oh !  take  me  with  you  !  take  me 
with  you  !  As  servant,  as  page,  as  cook,  or  as  compan- 
ion, as  you  will !  I  would  be  so  easy  to  get  on  with,  so 
brave,  daring,  would  bear  fatigue,  and  so  happy  to  dine 
off  a  jackal !  "     But  how  could  I  say  all  this '^ 

Seeing  me  listening  wnth  rapt  attention,  my  eyes 
shining  with  enthusiasm,  and  my  hands  clasped  in  my 
emotion — 

"All  this  seems  very  fine  to  you,  does  it  not?"  he 
said,  with  the  manner  he  usually  has  when  I  am  excited. 

Really,  to  see  and  hear  him,  one  would  think  he  had 
lived  at  least  two  or  three  lives,  and  that  his  fourth  at- 
tempt wearies  him,  like  an  old  book  that  one  knows  by 
heart.  He  says  to  himself,  "  On  such  a  page  I  shall  find 
this  thing,  on  another  that,"  and  this  is  the  cause  of  his 


144  ^^^"^    STORY   OF  COLETTE. 

indifference  about  everything:  he  has  lost  the  pleasure 
of  the  unforeseen.  This  is  the  only  explanation  I  can 
find  for  his  morose  temper,  and  sometimes  I  want  to  ask 
him,  "  Did  ycni  do  this,  and  did  you  think  that,  in  vour 
first  life?"  But  he  would  doubtless  think  1  am  crazy, 
so  I  keep  my  little  observations  to  myself,  and  content 
myself  with  saying  in  all  sincerity  how  much  I  envy 
him,  and  how  tempting  his  life  of  adventure  seems  to 
me. 

"  Bah  1  you  would  soon  tire  of  it,"  he  said,  shrugging 
his  shoulders :  "  there  are  neither  dolls  nor  plavthings 
in  those  countries." 

Tire  of  it !  I  know  I  should  find  it  delightful;  and, 
besides,  have  I  any  playthings  here  ■*  If  M.  de  Civreuse 
will  be  kind  enough  to  show  them  to  me,  1  shall  be 
much  obliged  to  him. 

I,  who  have  always  loved  the  impossible,  who  in  my 
cradle  wanted  the  gilt  arrow  that  held  niv  curtains,  be- 
cause it  was  inaccessible  to  me,  and  who  ever  since 
have  continued  to  long  for  all  the  arrows  out  of  mv 
reach  ! 

"  But  you  do  not  know  what  I  care  for."  I  said  to  M. 
Pierre;  "I  want  all  I  can  not  reach,  and  1  admire  all 
that  I  can  not  do." 

"  Like  the  Malays  of  Timor,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
curiously,  "  who  adore  crocodiles  because,  thev  remark, 
very  judiciously,  'A  crocodile  swallows  a  man,  but  a 
man  can  not  swallow  a  crocodile  ' ! '' 

I  did  not  answer.  The  reasoning  docs  not  seem  so 
nonsensical;  these  Malays  appear  to  me  to  be  logical. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  145 

When  one  docs  not  love  through  preference,  it  is 
something  to  venerate  from  fear,  and  if  I  knew  how  to 
make  some  one  say  that  he  adored  me — even  through 
fear  of  being  eaten  up — how  willingly  would  I  become 
a  Malay ! 


Pierre  to  Jacques. 

My  friend,  she  is  clever,  there  is  no  denying  it ;  but 
her  excitability  and  her  ardor  frighten  me. 

Would  you  like  a  squib,  which,  instead  of  exploding 
among  the  stars,  danced  perpetually  before  your  eyes? 
For  my  own  part,  it  makes  me  nervous.  Only,  to  be 
just,  the  squib  has  fine  colors  and  bold  curves. 

This  means  that  we  have  regular  conversations,  and 
that  she  is  not  in  the  least  timid  with  me.  A  patriarch 
does  not  count,  you  understand. 

But  let  us  begin  with  my  small  vanities,  if  you  will. 
The  wound  turns  out  better  than  I  feared.  The  scar 
goes  along  under  the  hair,  and  comes  down  to  the  eye- 
brows with  a  determined  look.  It  can  not  be  helped. 
I  might  have  got  it  at  Malakof,  hence  it  brings  no  re- 
proach. 

The  good  doctor  himself  looked  at  me  with  pride — 
an  artist's  vanity,  which  is  very  excusable.  Then  he 
called  everybody  to  come  and  see  how  smoothly  and 
exactly  he  had  closed  the  wound. 

Benoite  complimented  me  in  her  own  way  with  her 
usual  frankness.  "  It  was  better  before,  that  is  sure,  but 
it   is   a  good  piece  of   mending  all  the  same ! "     And 


146 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


Mademoiselle  Colette  nearly  did  me  the  lu)nor  of  show- 
inof  sentiment  about  it. 

She  leaned  over  to  look,  whiter  than  her  cambric 
handkerchief,  and,  as  I  raised  my  eyebrows  to  show  her 
my  agility — 

"  Why.  it  moves  I "  she  cried,  horrified,  turning  to- 
ward the  doctor. 

"What?"  he  asked,  "  The  skin  of  the  forehead  ?  I 
hope  so;  yours  does  too." 

She  scowled,  and  tried  it  in  every  direction  so  as  to 
be  sure  ;  then,  tranquillized,  she  approached,  and  com- 
paring my  two  eyes,  the  one  just  uncovered  with  the 
other : 

"  It  is   exactly  like   it,"   she  sighed   in  a  low   voice. 
And  I  was  forced  to  conclude  that,  up  to  the  present, 
she  had  supposed  me  cross-eyed,  or  that  I  had  but  one. 
When  the  excitement  was  over,  the  doctor  left ;  Be- 
noite  returned  to  her  furnaces,  which  are  emphatically 
such,  for  at  Erlange  the  cooking  is  done 
on  the  hearth  with  a  tripod,  in  our  fa- 
thers'   fashion ;    and    Mademoiselle    Co- 
lette and  I  were  left  alone  together  as 
usual. 

You  could  never  believe  the  amount 
of  talking  we  have  done  for  the  last 
four  days,  and  my  discoveries  about 
my  young  companion  are  many.  To 
begin  with,  Jacques,  be  shocked  if  vou 
like,  but  I  have  been  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
is  absolutely  ignorant — a  veritable  little  savage.     Onlv, 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


147 


3'ou  would  lose  your  time  if  you  attempted  to  pity  her 
for  it,  and  your  sympathy  would  be  superfluous,  for  she 
accepts  the  fact  with  the  most  amiable  philosophy,  and 
makes  a  sort  of  mixture  of  all  her  knowledge,  which 
has  neither  head  nor  tail,  and  this  appears  to  satisfy  her 
perfectly.  Yet  she  has  spent  two  years  in  one  of  the 
best  convents  of  Paris  ;  but  we  are  great  fools,  you  and 
I,  if  we  think  that  study  is  the  occupation  in  such  places. 

In  the  different  departments  the  interests  vary. 
From  dolls  they  go  on  to  hoops,  from  hoops  to  story- 
books, from  story-books  to  society,  the  polka,  or  a  waltz, 
learned  on  the  close-cut  grass  of  the  shrubberies,  when 
the  teachers  are  not  looking.  But  study  is  only  an  ac- 
cessory— the  fifth  wheel  of  the  carriage. 

Besides,  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  has  her  ideas  about 
it,  which  she  explained  to  me  with  extreme  clearness. 
She  has  never  been  able  to  remember  anything  which 
did  not  concern  people  or  things  she  liked.  All  this 
she  knows  perfectly  ;  as  for  the  rest — it  is  nothing. 
This  is  her  system. 

Take  as  an  example  her  history  of  France  ;  it  is  very 
simple.  She  begins  it  at  Charlemagne,  "  a  great  man 
who  interests  her,"  and  she  knows  all  about  him — the 
ball  he  holds  in  his  hand,  his  sword,  his  big  foot,  and  es- 
pecially his  nephew  Roland.  From  him  she  jumps  to 
Henri  IV,  her  great  passion.  She  knows  all  his  witty 
sayings,  adores  his  profile  and  his  impetuosity,  but  gets 
a  little  confused  in  the  story  of  the  abjuration  and  con- 
quest. As  long  as  France  belonged  to  him  from  the 
cradle,  what  need  had  he  to  fight  about  it?    Her  history 


148  ^"^/^     STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

Stops  at  Napoleon — the  last  personage  she  cares  for. 
Since  then,  have  we  been  awake  or  asleep  ?  She  hardly 
knows,  and,  until  another  great  man  appears,  she  does 
not  mean  to  think  about  it.  The  poor  child  is  likely  to 
wait  a  long  time,  to  judge  from  present  appearances. 
What  do  you  think? 

Between  times  she  has  a  mild  interest  in  Bayard, 
Duguesclin,  Joan  of  Arc,  and  in  general  all  the  fighters. 
They  serve  for  breaks  in  her  great  interregnums,  and  I 
am  not  quite  sure  that  she  does  not  crown  one  or  the 
other  of  them  from  time  to  time. 

You  can  understand  the  process,  there  is  nothing 
easier  ;  and  it  is  not  merely  a  theorv.  She  applies  it 
bravely  to  everything.  Thus,  in  geography  she  does 
not  hesitate  to  avow  her  national  antipathies,  which  are 
numerous. 

She  dislikes  England  and  the  English,  for  instance. 
On  her  map  the  Channel  is  marked  with  a  red  line, 
which  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  never  crosses.  As  you 
might  imagine,  the  Rhine  is  inexorably  barred  ;  and,  as 
the  Italians  please  her  no  better  than  the  English,  the 
same  fatal  mark  passes  over  the  peaks  of  the  Alps. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  would  go  to  Russia  to  interest 
herself  in  the  Slavs,  and  I  believe  she  is  ignorant  of 
more  than  one  peculiarity  of  the  French  soil. 

If  you  were  to  tell  her  that  Parnassus  is  a  hill  oppo- 
site Montmartre,  she  would  not  be  in  the  least  aston- 
ished ;  and  she  mixes  up  dc'i)artnients,  cities,  railroads, 
and  rivers  with  the  most  easy  good-nature. 

If  you  add  to  this  the  mass  of  varied  knowledge  she 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  149 

has  picked  up,  no  one  can  tell  how,  a  good  deal  of  po- 
etr}^  some  political  ideas,  anecdotes  of  the  time  of  King 
William,  a  way  of  adding  up  figures  which  would  not 
be  allowed  in  even  a  cobbler's  apprentice,  wonderful 
self-possession,  and  an  extreme  quickness  of  apprehen- 
sion, you  have  a  whole  which  would  give  a  schoolmaster 
the  jaundice,  but  which  would  delight  an  imaginative 
man. 

Being  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  I  look  on  and 
enjoy,  reposing  in  my  seat  in  the  balcony  stalls,  and  do 
not  forget  to  give  you  from  time  to  time  the  other  end 
of  the  telephone — lucky  fellow  that  you  are  ! 

With  no  knowledge  of  real  life,  and  in  love  with  the 
unattainable,  if  I  were  to  propose  to  her  to-morrow  to 
set  off  for  India  in  my  suite,  it  is  ten  to  one  that  she 
would  accept.  I  say  this  without  the  least  conceit,  for 
it  is  evident  that  I  should  count  for  nothinof  in  the  affair. 
But  to  see  crocodiles,  rattlesnakes,  and  other  nice  things, 
just  think  of  the  pleasure !  She  would  swim  all  the 
way,  to  have  it. 

It  is  astonishing  to  find  the  same  longing  for  emo- 
tions and  adventure  in  all  women.  They  prize  them 
more  than  anything  else,  but  they  would  be  mortally 
afraid  if  they  realized  their  cravings. 

Can  you  picture  to  yourself  Mademoiselle  Colette 
before  the  jaws  of  an  alligator  yawning  as  he  looked  at 
her?  The  poor  child  would  run  away — if  her  legs  were 
left  to  her — with  frightful  cries.  But  at  the  present  mo- 
ment she  can  conceive  no  happiness  equal  to  that  of 
having  a  close  view  of  these  great  saurians,  which  sob  in 


150 


THE    STORY  OT  COLETTE. 


the  evening  in  the  plaintive  tone  of  infants  in  the  cradle, 
as  she  has  been  told,  but  which,  when  thev  like,  if  I  am 
well  informed,  can  swallow  their  man  as  if  they  had  cut 
at  least  their  second  teeth. 

I  try  to  disenchant  her  ;  she  is  determined  to  see  the 
bright  side,  and  she  has  so  much  blue  on  her  pallet 
that  1  despair  of  finding  a  place  for  my  spots  of  black. 
You  declare  that  it  is  a  pity  and  an  abomination  to  de- 
stroy this  dreamer's  illusions.  And  why  are  you  not 
willing  that  I  should  teach  the  child  that  water  drowns 
and  lire  burns  ?  She  is  capable  of  not  suspecting  it, 
and  of  putting  in  her  hand  to  try.  Do  not  worry :  she 
loses  neither  sleep  nor  appetite  in  listening  to  my  skep- 
tical preaching,  and  1  should  like  you  to  see  her  lunch  . 
it  is  a  comforting  spectacle. 

At  four  o'clock,  at  the  fii'st  stroke  of  the  clock — a 
crazy  old  thing  that  goes  as  it  likes,  with  the  greatest 
contempt  for  exactitude,  and  which  Mademoiselle  Co- 
lette herself  winds  up  every  fortnight  in  the  towers  of 
the  chateau — she  gets  up  and  disappears  in  haste. 
Whether  in  the  middle  of  a  phrase,  with  a  motion  half- 
finished,  or  lost  in  the  exploration  of  her  ruins,  she  goes 
at  once,  and  cver3'thing  else  has  to  stop.  The  shij^- 
wrecked  sailors  of  the  M6duse  would  not  have  gone 
more  eagerly  in  pursuit  of  food. 

Five  minutes  previously  she  was  not  thinking  of  it, 
but  at  four  o'clock  she  feels  faint,  seized  with  a  hunger- 
fit,  and  acts  as  if,  the  hand  past  the  (juarter,  all  would 
be  lost. 

The  first  days  I  waited  for  her  return,  surprised  and 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  151 

anxious,  thinking  that  some  catastrophe  must  have  been 
the  motive  of  her  flight ;  but  at  the  end  of  fifteen  min- 
utes she  came  back  with  her  light  step,  a  corner  of  her 
dress  held  up  to  contain  her  provisions,  and,  reseating 
herself  while  eating  her  repast — and  what  a  repast ! — 
resumed  the  conversation  where  she  had  left  it  off. 

Regularly,  I  say  it  to  her  praise,  she  offers  to  share 
the  meal  with  me,  but  she  gets  through  the  whole  so 
easily,  that  I  should  have  scruples  about  accepting,  and 
I  watch  her  cracking  nuts  with  her  teeth  like  a  Nurem- 
berg toy,  and  eating  dried  prunes  which  resemble 
melted  India-rubber,  or  a  kind  of  soft  pasty  cake,  which 
draws  out  as  if  in  long  white  tongues. 

1  have  only  once  accepted  her  polite  offer.  She  had 
taken  out  of  the  folds  of  her  dress  five  red  apples  be- 
sides an  enormous  piece  of  bread.  Five  apples  !  Can 
you  understand  these  young  girls'  digestions — incapable 
of  getting  through  a  good  underdone  beefsteak,  and  re- 
ducing five  apples  in  some  minutes  ? 

I  had  refused  her  first  offer,  and  without  insisting 
she  went  to  work.  She  conscientiously  polished  each 
apple  with  her  woolen  dress  before  eating  it,  rubbing  it 
over  and  over  again,  and  only  setting  teeth  to  it  when 
her  black  eyes  were  reflected  in  the  shining  mirror  of 
its  skin.  I  watched  her,  amused  at  w^hat  she  was  doing, 
interested  in  the  spots  which  resisted,  and  so  much  oc- 
cupied with  her  that  at  the  third  apple  she  perceived  it. 
Was  there  a  desire  in  my  look,  or  did  she  only  think 
so?  I  do  not  know,  but  suddenly  stretching  out  her 
hand — 


1^2  TJJE   srOKY  OF  COLETTE. 

"  I  have  five  to-dav  ;  reallv  vou  could  take  one."  she 
said  ;  and,  as  I  did  not  reply,  (jverpowered  with  this 
munificence — 

"  1  will  make  it  shine  for  you,"  she  added  ;  and  with 
the  same  corner  of  her  drapery,  with  an  energy  that 
brought  the  blood  to  her  face,  she  obtained  the  proper 
polish  on  the  apple,  and  held  it  out  to  me. 

Of  course  I  ate  it  with  an  amount  of  gratitude  pro- 
portioned to  the  benefit,  but  this  symbolic  fruit  made 
me  anxious,  and  I  expected  to  see  the  serpent  appear 
from  under  the  furniture.  Happily,  there  was  none — 
at  least  in  appearance. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  physiological  idea  of  Made- 
moiselle Colette's  which  will  amuse  you,  I  am  sure, 
and  complete  the  description  of  her  scientific  attain- 
ments. 

It  was  yesterday,  at  the  fateful  hour  of  which  we 
have  been  speaking.  On  the  stroke  of  the  hour  she  had 
gone,  and  the  quarter  had  struck  before  she  returned. 
It  was  a  perfect  anomaly  ;  fifteen  minutes  to  compose 
her  feast!  What  would  she  bring  back  this  time?  I 
watched  the  door.  Five  minutes  later  she  returned 
with  both  hands  full,  and  walking  with  as  much  dignity 
as  though  she  were  carrying  a  relic.  For  an  instant  I 
thought  she  might  be  bringing  back  her  Saint  Joseph 
with  her,  and  that  they  were  reconciled,  but  it  was 
nothing  like  that.  The  object  of  so  much  care  was  a 
piece  of  hot  bread  which  smoked  in  hci-  lingers — a 
himch,  as  they  sav  here — nearly  the  size  of  a  cjuarter  of 
a  loaf.     In  the  middle  of  the  soft  paste  a   hollow  had 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


153 


been  made,  and  was  filled  with  thick  cream,  which  as  it 
melted  gave  out  a  delicious  odor. 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  sat  down,  shook  her 
head  with  a  confidential 
air,  and,  showing  me  the 
object,  said  in  a  low  voice 
with  an  expressive  ges- 
ture : 

"  It  burns  !  "  Then, 
without  waiting,  she  at- 
tacked the  fabulous  bread, 
biting  and  blowing  by 
turns. 

"  But,"  I  could  not 
help  saying,  "  you   are  never  going  to  eat  all  that  ? " 

"Yes.     Why  not?     It  is  excellent." 

"  Perhaps.  But  it  is  as  heavy  as  lead.  It  will  dis- 
agree with  your  stomach." 

"  My  stomach  !  "  she  repeated  in  a  tone  of  disdain, 
"  what  do  you  suppose  it  can  matter  to  my  stomach  ?  " 
And  she  threw  herself  back  to  laugh  at  her  ease  over 
the  idea  that  half  a  pound  of  hot  dough  could  incon- 
venience her  stomach. 

"  It  may  give  it  trouble  to  digest,"  I  quietly  replied. 
Then,  as  she  opened  her  big  eyes,  I  reflected  that  she 
probably  did  not  know  what  I  was  talking  about,  and  call- 
ing to  my  aid  the  classical  definition  of  my  childhood — 

"The  stomach,"  I  resumed  in  a  didactic  tone,  "is  a 
sort  of  pocket  shaped  like  a  bagpipe.  Its  distended  ex- 
tremity is  placed  on  the  left  side,  and  above — " 


154 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


*' Oh,  very  well,"  she  interrupted,  "  it  is  not  in  the 
least  like  that,  as  I  understand  it ! " 

And  as  the  bread  was  decidedly  too  hot,  she  put  it 
in  her  lap,  and,  requiring  no  urging,  went  on : 

"  This  is  how  I  think  it :  1  imagine  a  little,  old  man, 
very,  very  small,  bent  over,  in  a  brown  coat,  with  a  wig 
and  queue,  and  a  gold-headed  cane,  who  is  always  going 
and  coming  in  a  little  room.  In  the  middle  of  it  is  a 
big  chimney,  down  which  come  all  the  things  that  are 
sent  him,  and  he  rushes  to  it  whenever  there  is  an  ar- 
rival. He  leans  down,  sorts  them  out,  looks,  rubs  his 
hands  w^hen  what  he  receives  seems  good  to  him,  shrugs 
his  shoulders  and  gets  angry  when  it  is  bad.  'The 
fools!  what  have  they  sent  me?'  he  grumbles;  'what 
do  they  expect  me  to  do  with  that  ? '  And  he  pushes  it 
with  his  foot  into  a  corner,  where  useless  things  are  put, 
where  perhaps  my  hot  bread  will  go — it  is  possible — 
but  that  is  all.  As  for  a  pocket  and  a  bagpipe,  I  have 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be 
worried  about  it.  My  little  old  man  is  enough  fc^r  my 
work;  we  understand  each  other  perfectly,  and  if  he 
scowls  a  little  on  the  days  when  I  eat  green  apples,  he 
is  at  least  polite  enough  not  to  make  any  remarks.  Why 
should  I  change  ?  " 

The  bread  had  stopped  smoking,  the  crust  cracked 
as  it  cooled,  and  the  cream  smelt  better  than  ever. 
Mademoiselle  Colette  took  the  cake  delicately  in  her 
fingers,  and  finished  her  luncheon  without  a  word,  sure 
that  she  had  convinced  me  of  the  existence  of  her  little 
man.     Such  is  her  logic. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


155 


But  in  hearing  her  tell  of  her  past  life,  one  may  un- 
derstand her  peculiarities  !  Yesterday  I  questioned  her 
on  her  childhood,  trying  to  find  the  trace  of  a  governess, 
professor,  or  any  other  director,  and,  as  I  could  find 
nothing  resembling  one — 

"  But  who  brought  you  up  ?  "   I  asked  at  last. 

"  Nobody !  "  she  replied.  "  I  came  up  in  my  own 
way  as  best  I  could  !  Thank  Goodness,  I  had  that  com- 
pensation for  my  solitude  !  " 

And  she  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand,  to  indicate 
something  growing  as  it  likes. 

Can  you  imagine  this  situation  ^ — this  young  girl 
springing  up  as  wild  oats  do,  between  her  dog  and  her 
old  nurse  who  is  even  more  her  slave  than  the  dog,  and 
with  twenty-four  hours  every  day  to  get  into  any  scrapes 
she  chooses!  I  can  now  understand  the  incident  to 
which  I  am  indebted  for  the  pleasure  of  her  acquaint- 
ance: to  pass  from  thought  to  action,  it  is  only  neces- 
sary for  her  to  have  the  material  time  necessary  for  the 
accomplishment  of  her  fancy.  She  knows  no  Other 
condition. 

There  are,  however,  in  this  existence  melancholy 
hours  which  she  describes  without  reserve,  and  the  aunt 
of  whom  I  have  told  you — a  frightful  old  woman — has 
just  given  me  a  specimen  of  her  ill-humor.  She  has 
made  an  attack  upon  us  from  which  our  little  society 
has  hardly  yet  recovered,  and  the  traces  of  which  will 
remain. 

About  two  hours  ago  I  was  watching  "  One,"  who 
was  executing  all  his  best  tricks  under  the  direction  of 


156 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTT. 


Mademoiselle  Colette,  who  did  not  disdain  to  take  part 
from  time  to  time  in  the  exercise,  when  the  door  opened 
suddenly  and  a  woman  entered.  Tall,  dry,  bony,  ugly 
enough  to  take  the  role  of  an  ogress,  if  she  chose,  she 
announced  herself  in  a  voice  which  instantly  brought 
her  young  niece  to  her  feet,  and  made  the  dog  place 
himself  in  front  of  his  mistress,  showing  his  teeth,  as  if 
to  protect  her. 

"  Sir  I   I  am  Mademoiselle  d'Epine,"  she  said  to  me. 

"Very  well  named,"*  I  said  to  myself;  but  aloud, 
"  Mademoiselle,  I  have  the  honor  to  present  my  respects 
to  you." 

But  what  did  she  care  for  my  respects  ? 

"A  month  ago,"  she  continued,  "you  arrived  in  niv 
house,  coming  from  nobody  knows  where ;  and,  as  I 
have  thought  that  you  must  be  now  at  about  the  end 
of  your  visit,  I  wished  to  see  you  once  before  your  de- 
parture." 

"Arrived"  seemed  to  me  curious,  and  "visit"  more 
peculiar  still,  and  you  will  agree  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  put  a  man  more  decidedly  out  of  doors ;  but, 
before  I  could  answer.  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange  had  re- 
covered herself. 

"  Say  rather  in  our  house,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  and  oven 
in  my  house,  for  M.  de  Civreuse  is  in  my  wing,  as  you 
know  very  well.  And  as  for  the  way  in  which  he  came, 
which  you  seem  to  have  forgotten,  I  will  refresh  your 
memory. 

"  I  wounded  liiiii  in  the  head  by  throwing  something 

*  Epinc,  a  thorn. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


157 


out  as  he  was  passing  by,  certainly  not  thinking  of  us. 
Benoite  and  1  carried  him  into  the  kitchen  half-dead. 
Then,  while  she  was  preparing  this  room,  and  I  was 
watching  him  down  below,  I  swore,  on  my  knees  by  his 
side,  to  take  care  of  him,  to  cure  him,  and  to  obtain  his 
pardon.  Do  you  now  remember  these  things  ?  I  told 
you  all  once  before." 

"  I  only  remember  this,"  she  replied,  angrily,  going 
toward  the  young  girl,  "  that  once  before  I  protested 
against  your  playing  the  part  of  sick-nurse,  which  you 
have  undertaken  in  an  inexcusable  manner,  and  that 
this  time  I  will  find  a  way  to  force  you  to  relinquish  it." 

"  Why  did  vou  not  take  it  upon  yourself  ?  "  returned 
Mademoiselle  Colette ;  "  there  is  more  than  one  place 
by  the  bed,  I  suppose." 

"A  bed  which  I  shall  most  certainly  have  left  by 
this  evening,  mademoiselle,"  I  returned,  "  and  which  I 
should  never  have  consented  to  occupy  a  single  instant 
if  I  had  been  even  more  than  half-dead,  or  had  in  the 
least  suspected  that  I  was  received  against  the  wishes  of 
any  one  here  ! ' 

I  was  beside  myself.  The  most  insolent  things  came 
to  my  lips,  and  I  really  do  not  know  what  kept  me  from 
jumping  up  instantly.  Certainly  it  was  not  the  presence 
of  this  woman,  and,  if  she  had  been  alone,  I  am  sure  I 
should  have  revenged  myself  by  shocking  her  mod- 
esty by  that  unexpected  spectacle.  But  she  was  not 
alone. 

Besides,  she  did  not  answer  my  protestations  by  a 
single  word  ;  but,  turning  to  her  niece,  said  : 


I  eg  THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 

"  You  will  i)C'  forced  to  obedience  by  some  one  wiser 
than  you  arc." 

Then,  judj^ing  that  she  had  accomplished  her  pur- 
pose, she  turned  toward  the  door  with  her  long,  gawky 
step,  as  a  dismasted  ship  past  usefulness  is  drawn  up  on 
the  beach,  knocking  against  every  rock. 

But  she  was  not  half-way  there  when  a  fourth  per- 
son appeared  on  the  scene  ;  it  was  my  doctor,  who 
darted  in  like  an  arrow,  with  knit  brow  and  compressed 
lips,  and  seized  her  brusquely  by  the  arm. 

"  Who  speaks  of  obedience  in  a  sick-room  when  the 
doctor  is  not  there  ?  "  he  said,  rudely. 

He  had  been  listening  behind  the  door,  and  did  not 
conceal  it. 

"  You,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mademoiselle  Colette, 
"  you  are  in  your  jiropcr  place  here.  Do  not  stir.  I 
put  you  here,  I  keep  you  here,  and  consider  it  my 
business. 

"  As  for  you,  sir,"  he  said  to  me,  "  I  suppose  you 
have  not  forgotten  our  first  conversation  ;  you  know  mv 
views  on  the  responsibility  I  take.  I  have  your  word, 
and  yovi  will  not  leave  Erlange  until  I  give  the  per- 
mission." 

"As  for  vou,  Madcinoisclle,"  he  added,  looking  at 
the  (^1(1  maid,  whom  he  still  hcUl  bv  the  arm,  "  1  have 
the  honor  of  offering  you  my  arm  to  take  you  back  to 
your  room,  and  on  the  way  I  will  give  you  some  in- 
formation about  fractures,  the  effects  of  which  you  do 
not  seem  to  understand,  and  which  will  interest  you,  I 
am  sure." 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


159 


Dragging    off    Mademoiselle    d'Epine    utterly    con- 
founded, on  whom  he  smiled  placidly,  he  took  her  down 
the    whole    length    of    the 
room.      He  stopped  on  the 
threshold. 

"  And  take  particular 
notice,"  said  he,  turning 
and  looking  at  us,  "that 
Mademoiselle  d'Erlange 
was  mistaken  by  one  half 
just  now.  It  is  not  one 
wing  which  is  hers,  but  the 
entire  chateau,  ruins  and 
all."     Then  they  went  out. 

To  say  that  I  was  raging  l*^-*' 

internally  would  be  feeble  ; 

I  could  not  keep  from  revengeful  gestures,  and  I  longed 
to  be  able  to  make  some  one  suffer.  But  in  spite  of  the 
malice  of  my  adversary,  as  she  claimed  to  belong  to  the 
gentler  sex  she  was  out  of  my  reach  ;  and  yet  I  have 
seen  grenadiers  who  would  gladly  pass  for  beaus  if  they 
could  have  her  broad  shoulders.  Besides,  1  remembered 
Mademoiselle  Colette :  the  attack  on  her  had  been  still 
worse. 

I  turned  toward  her,  expecting  to  find  her  in  tears  ; 
but  she  was  far  from  that.  With  flashing  eyes  and  head 
erect,  she  seemed  a  Bellona  in  anger, 

"  A  wicked  woman  !  a  wicked  woman  !  "  she  cried, 
stamping  her  foot  on  the  ground. 

Then  suddenly  throwing  herself  into  an  arm-chair — 


l6o  T^^E   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

"  I  have  lived  nearly  eighteen  years  with  her  !  "  she 
burst  forth. 

"  Is  she  always  like  this?"   I  asked  her. 

"  Always." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  witii  her  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  she  rejdied,  shaking  her  head.  "  Sour 
grapes,  perhaps.  I  think  there  are  some  women  who 
grow  up  ill-tempered,  as  there  is  some  grass  full  of  net- 
tles.    She  evidently  belongs  to  the  nettles." 

"  But  when  I  was  not  here,  why  was  she  generally 
cross  with  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  looking  at  me  with  a  hesitating 
air,  the  shadow  of  a  smile  lifting  the  corner  of  her  lip, 
while  she  mechanically  pulled  at  her  dog's  long  hair.  1 
looked  at  her,  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  and,  as  I  looked, 
I  was  so  struck  with  the  contrast  between  this  charm- 
ing face  and  the  hard,  broad  mask  of  the  woman  who 
had  just  left  us,  that,  without  thinking,  I  exclaimed : 

"  Is  it  because  you  are  eighteen,  and  she — ?" 

Tlic  smile  deepened,  and  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange, 
looking  at  me  through  her  eyelashes,  said  : 

"  She  was  eighteen  once,  but — "  She  was  silent 
again,  lowering  her  eyelashes  completely,  so  that  they 
beat  on  her  j)ink  cheeks  like  a  lace  fan.  Embarrassment 
is  very  rare  with  her,  but  is  becoming,  and  without 
hesitation  1  put  her  thoughts  into  words: 

"  She  was  eighteen  once,  of  course  ;  but  her  spring 
had  not  the  flowers  of  yours:  that  is  it." 

flow  I  allowed  myself  to  be  drawn  into  such  a  mad- 
rigal, the  devil  only  knows!     But,  as  Mademoiselle  Co- 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  16 1 

lette  had  bravely  defended  me  just  now,  she  deserved 
that  I  should  come  to  her  aid  in  my  turn.  She  took  it  as 
a  simple  statement  of  fact,  began  to  laugh  gayly,  and 
raised  her  eyebrows  with  a  little  gesture  that  signified, 
"  Yes,  you  are  right  this  time  !  "  Then,  without  tran- 
sition, her  confidence  completely  restored,  she  let  flow 
the  current  of  her  recollections,  relating  episodes  of  her 
childhood  which  concerned  her  aunt,  telling  how  fright- 
ened she  used  to  be  at  her  as  a  child  ;  the  whole  with- 
out bitterness,  but  with  a  comic  and  malicious  fancy 
which  gave  a  touch  of  life  and  burlesque  relief  to  the 
portrait  of  her  very  peculiar  guardian.  Egotism  and 
jealousy  are  the  two  dominant  qualities  of  this  woman, 
and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  trait  that  reveals  her. 

Naturally  very  fond  of  good  eating,  she  manages  so 
that  the  limited  resources  of  the  house  shall  never  inter- 
fere with  her  requirements  ;  but  the  bill  of  fare,  gen- 
erally carefully  prepared,  is  never  better  than  on  fast- 
days.  On  these  mornings  some  delicate  little  dish  is 
prepared,  and  as  they  sit  down  to  table  Mademoiselle 
d'Epine  says  to  her  niece  : 

"  My  stomach  does  not  bear  fasting,  Colette ;  you 
will  have  to  fast  for  us  both." 

And  the  niece  eats  her  sardines  or  her  vegetables, 
accompanied  by  the  odor  of  the  squabs  eaten  bv  her 
aunt,  who  piously  offers  Heaven  this  compromise,  pray- 
ing to  have  the  substitution  accepted. 

I  hope  that  some  day  in  purgatory,  when  her  accounts 
are  made  up,  she  will  find  that  her  schemes  were  not 
wise ;  but  purgatory  is  far  off,  and  until  then  who  can 


l62  Tlfr-    SrOKY   OF  COLETTE. 

rescue  this  child  from  her  clutches,  and,  above  all,  who 
will  give  her  back  her  past  years,  and  supply  the  affec- 
tionate care  and  the  education  whicii  she  has  not  re- 
ceived ? 

I  can  tell  you,  Jacques,  a  sequestration  is  going  on 
here,  and  that  is  what  this  woman  wants. 

The  roast  chickens  which  she  refuses  to  give  her 
niece,  the  soft  covers,  and  the  soft  bed,  all  the  comforts 
which  she  reserves  for  herself  alone,  are  nothing;  but 
she  intends  to  imprison  the  girl  morallv  between  four 
walls,  and  to  keep  her  spirit  and  her  youth  so  closely 
guarded  that  no  one  shall  guess  the  life  that  is  crushed 
under  the  ruins. 

What  would  you  call  this  crime,  if  vou  deny  that  it 
is  imprisonment,  and  how  would  you  punish  it  ? 

For  my  part,  I  intend  to  circumvent  her,  and  without 
delay.  The  day  after  1  leave  here  1  will  begin  the  work. 
If  I  have  to  make  an  outcry  through  the  press,  assemble 
a  family  council,  or  call  in  the  aid  of  the  police,  1  will 
succeed,  and  the  door  of  this  cave  shall  be  thrown  open. 
To  whom  can  belong  the  part  of  righter  of  wrongs,  if 
not  to  those  who  despise  the  world  and  know  it  as  it  is  ? 

In  exchange  for  her  watchings  and  the  care  she  has 
taken  of  me,  Mademoiselle  Colette  shall  have  her  liberty. 
I  will  open  the  door  of  her  cage.  By  all  that  is  sacred, 
Jacques — you  hear? — I  swear  it! 

Half  an  hour  later  the  doctor  came  back,  and  you 
can  imagine  the  discussion. 

"  Doctor.  I  intend  to  leave." 

"  Do  not  let  us  go  back  to  that,  I  beg." 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  jgo 

"  Give  me  back  my  promise." 

"  Most  certainly  not.  You  are  at  the  most  difficult 
and  delicate  stage  ;  do  not  spoil  such  a  beautiful  fracture 
for  me." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  sta^'  here  after  the  scene 
we  have  just  had  ;  you  must  see  that." 

"  I  tell  you  that  woman  is  crazy.  Shall  I  sign  a  paper 
committing  her  to  Charenton,  so  as  to  put  your  mind  at 
rest?  " 

And  as  I  insisted — 

"Sir,"  he  said,  coolly,  "  my  age  and  character  are 
sufficient  for  me  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  my  acts ; 
will  you  have  the  goodness  to  send  me  any  persons  who 
have  any  fault  to  find  with  them — "  And  he  turned  his 
back,  while  jNIademoiselle  Colette  kept  on  saying : 

"  But  since  you  are  in  my  house !  But  since  you 
have  been  told  that  you  are  in  my  house ! " 

The  poor  little  thing  saw  no  further  in  it  than 
that. 

Finally,  the  doctor  promised  on  his  honor  to  let  me 
go  in  ten  days,  and  on  my  side  I  have  promised  not  to 
attempt  to  escape  before  that  time.  But  all  the  same,  I 
am  exasperated.  It  is  useless  talking,  the  position  is 
false.  Every  time  the  door  creaks  I  tremble  like  a  run- 
away school-boy,  and  I  would  like  to  send  Mademoiselle 
d'Erlange  about  her  business.  Only,  she  sees  no  harm 
in  it.  It  was  a  scene,  that  is  all ;  she  has  witnessed 
many  others,  and  she  continues  her  usual  life  in  perfect 
composure. 


164 


THE   STOKY   OF  COLETTE. 


April  20th. 

It  is  all  over — tlic  good  days  arc  ending ;  and  in  spite 
of  all  I  can  do  now,  without  knowing  how  or  why,  all 
my  reveries  end  in  tears. 

It  IS  without  wishing  it,  and  even  without  perceiving 
it.  1  seat  myself  as  1  used  to  do  on  my  divan,  I  think  of 
the  same  things,  and  what  pleased  me  yesterday,  what 
made  me  laugh  so  gayly  that  1  had  to  bury  my  head  in 
the  cushions  for  fear  some  one  would  hear  me,  makes  me 
sad  now.  I  still  bury  my  head  in  the  same  place,  but 
when  1  take  it  up  the  stuff  is  moist,  and  it  is  only  then 
that  I  perceive  that  1  have  wept. 

What  a  frightful  scene  my  aunt  made,  and  how  it 
wT)undcd  mc !  1  was  so  afraid  that  M.  Pierre  would  be 
angry ! 

The  doctor  happily  arranged  it  all ,  but  he  remains 
a  little  constrained,  a  little  embarrassed.  Perhaps  he 
is  vexed  with  us  in  spite  of  all,  and  that  makes  me  so 
sorry  ! 

Only  one  week  more  to  stay  here !  I  should  not 
have  thought  he  could  have  been  cured  so  quicklv  ;  it 
is  too  short !  That  is  to  say,  it  is  not  the  illness  which 
is  too  short,  it  is  the  stay.  1  thought  he  would  be  much 
longer  at  Erlange,  and  above  all —  Well,  1  did  not 
think  it  would  end  in  this  way.  Now  it  is  over,  nobodv 
will  care  f(ir  Colette  :  when  he  has  passed  the  door,  he 
will  not  think  of  her  any  more,  and  she  will  be  alone, 
much  more  lonelv  than  before,  as  the  darkness  is  black- 
er in  a  place  which  has  been  light,  and  from  which  the 
light  has  been  taken  away. 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


165 


Very  softly  this  tenacious  folly  which  I  have  in  me 
hopes  still.  Why  and  what  ?  1  can  not  say,  but  I 
feel  there  is  a  change  coming — I  am  afraid  it  is  far 
off! 

At  least,  M.  de  Civreuse  will  suspect  nothing.  With 
him  1  am  gayer  than  ever,  and  without  effort.  It  is  so 
nice  in  that  big  room  ! — 1  tell  the  whole  truth  only  to 
my  confidants,  my  cushion  and  my  diary,  and  when  1 
have  finished  with  the  first,  1  carry  it  to  the  fire  and 
dry  it,  and  1  take  the  second.  The  margins  are  quite 
spoiled  ;  without  thinking,  I  write,  two  initials,  always 
the  same,  lengthwise,  across,  interlaced,  separate,  and 
just  now  1  put  his  whole  name  on  my  left  hand — a  letter 
on  every  nail,  and  two  on  the  last,  the  thumb. 

It  was  funny,  and  at  first  I  laughed  ;  then  came  this 
stupid    little    tear,   and    the 
ink    was    blotted. — And    so 
everything  is  blotted  out. 

But  yesterday  I  chose 
my  ground  better.  I  ran 
to  the  end  of  the  park,  and 
on  the  bark  of  a  great  pine- 
tree,  the  one  near  which  I 
used  to  dream  and  which 
I  climbed  last  autumn  to 
watch  for  adventures,  with  '/ 
my  little  dagger  I  cut  the 
name    which    occupies    my 

thoughts.     There  is  no  other  way  of  telling  a  tree  what 
one  thinks,  and  I  was  glad  to  tell  it. 


i66  THE  sroRY  of  colkttf.. 

When  I  came  in,  M.  IMcrrc  nuticcd   my  tlamj)  dress 
and  wet  shoes. 

"  Have  you  been  out  ?  "  he  asked. 
And  1  answered,  "Yes,  1  took  a  walk." 
If  he  knew  what  walk! 


Pierre  to  Jacques. 

"  My  friend,  you  arc  an  idiot." 

Why  does  the  beginning  of  the  letter  whicli  Henri 
IV  wrote  quite  three  hundred  years  ago  to  his  faith- 
ful Sully  come  to  mind  to-day  ?  Analogy,  probably, 
and  because  on  this  point  at  least  you  resemble  this 
morning  that  model  of  ministers. 

Seriously,  Jacques,  this  time  your  letter  made  me 
angry.  I  have  arrived  at  the  age  of  reason,  I  suppose, 
and  I  know  what  I  feel  and  what  I  want,  and  vour 
witticisms  have  no  sense  in  them. 

My  pulse  is  excellent,  my  head  clear,  and  mv  heart 
light,  whatever  you  may  say,  and  I  have  no  hidden 
object  in  the  efforts  that  I  am  about  to  make  for  the 
good  of  my  young  hostess. 

"  You  are  mixing  yourself  up  in  things  which  do  not 
concern  you;  you  are  drawing  down  on  yourself  mill- 
ions of  annoyances,  and  risk  being  put  in  your  j)lace 
by  the  notary  who  will  politely  send  you  about  your 
business,  and  all  for  a  ])crson  who  is  utterly  indifferent 
to  you  !  How  probable  it  all  is,  and  how  can  you  ex- 
pect me   to  believe   that,  especi:illy  when   1   know   that 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  167 

the  person  in  question  is  a  young  and  beautiful  creat- 
ure !  Be  frank,  confess,  and  marry  her :  it  is  much 
simpler." 

My  poor  Jacques,  you  settle  things  with  a  club,  as 
one  beats  down  nuts;  your  "  much  simpler  "  is  heroic, 
even  more  so  than  you  suspect. 

I  do  not  work  for  reward,  my  friend  ;  it  is  for 
honor,  for  the  love  of  art,  like  a  knight  of  old,  and  you 
must  confess  that  if  all  those  brave  paladins,  who  for- 
merly defended  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  had  thought 
themselves  forced,  or  even  authorized,  to  marry  all  the 
prisoners  whom  they  delivered  in  a  year,  each  one 
would  have  possessed  a  harem,  and  morality  would 
have  swept  away  the  whole  within  six  months. 

Remember  that  I  am  only  just  beginning  my  jour- 
ney around  the  world,  and  do  not  make  a  chimney- 
piece  of  my  sword  at  the  first  stage  ;  it  dances  in  its 
scabbard  at  the  thought  of  all  the  fine  things  it  is  to 
accomplish,  and  the  idea  of  repose  by  the  fireside  is 
horrible  !  If  this  little  blonde  seems  of  such  inestimable 
value  to  you,  why  do  you  not  come  and  take  up  the 
work  yourself  ? 

I  can  tell  you  in  confidence,  if  you  want  to  know, 
that  Mademoiselle  Colette  is  in  love  with  you  already. 
She  is  sure  of  it,  she  has  told  me  ;  and  if  I  had  not  been 
afraid  of  one  of  your  usual  extravagances,  I  should  have 
told  you  so  before.  Now  you  know.  Be  quick,  and  I 
will  introduce  you. 

And  now,  let  us  leave  this  subject,  I  beg  you,  for  it 
irritates    me.     I    have    hardly    a   week    more    to  spend 


l68  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

here.  Do  not  let  me  play  that  excellent  doctor  false, 
and  leave  some  fine  evening,  sick  of  the  whole  subject ; 
and  if  you  arc  not  seeking  a  ([uarrel  w  itii  mc,  for 
Heavens  sake  leave  me  in  peace,  and  cease  your  senti- 
mental forecasts  I 

1  do  not  say  but  that  a  man  of  enthusiastic  tempera- 
ment, an  untried  heart,  and  some  youthful  illusions, 
might  be  affected  here — the  strange  surroundings,  the 
intimacy,  those  beautiful  eyes ! 

But  it  is  not  my  fault,  Jaqcues,  if  I  am  no  longer 
twenty — to-morrow  there  will  be  just  nine  vears  since 
that  was  the  case  ;  and  there  are  two  things  one  can 
never  have  back  :  youth  and  illusions.  If  vou  can  give 
them  back  to  me,  on  the  word  of  a  disenchanted  man,  I 
will  fall  at  her  feet. 

Our  last  days  pass  vcrv  plcasantlv.  Mademoiselle 
d'Erlange  is  gayer  than  ever,  and  no  constraint  is  pos- 
sible near  her. 

I  confess  it  to  you  in  ])rivate,  this  unconcernedness 
and  these  good  spirits  surprise  me  a  little. 

Certainly  1  am  neither  a  fool  nor  a  lady-killer.  1 
appreciate  mvsclf  at  my  real  value,  but  1  am  perhaps 
worth  a  little  emotion,  and  I  renicmbcr  a  brilliant  circle 
where  I  held  niv  own.  Doubtless  Paris  demands  less 
than  Erlange. 

Remark,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  delighted  that  it  is 
so;  the  contrarv  would  have  embarrassed  me,  saddened 
mc,  tilled  nie  with  remorse,  and  1  only  si)eak  of  it  be- 
cause I  write  evervtliing.  But  vou  must  acknowledge 
tluit  it  is  sinsrular  that  a   voung  ."-irl  who  is  alone,  who 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


169 


finds  her  life  tiresome,  and  who  suddenly  sees  her  first 
romance  appear  in  the  shape  of  a  young-  man,  tolerably 
good-looking,  receives  it  thus ;  we  may  throw  to  the 
winds  the  legend  which  makes  young  girls'  hearts  of  in- 
flammable stuff.  Besides,  I  am  ready  to  believe  that 
Mademoiselle  d'Erlange's  exuberant  spirits  serve  to 
reliev^e  her,  and  that  so  many  outward  manifestations 
leave  her  inner  thoughts  in  a  state  of  great  placidity ; 
her  heart  may  even  be  a  little  hard — a  fact  easily  ac- 
counted for  by  her  childhood,  so  devoid  of  tenderness 
and  joy. 

However  it  may  be,  all  is  for  the  best,  and  we  em- 
ploy our  last  afternoons  over  the  noble  game  of  check- 
ers. 

They  do  not  go  on  without  some  tempests,  which 
disturb  the  sittings,  for  Mademoiselle  Colette  does  not 
like  to  be  beaten  ;  and  after  the  first  lessons,  when  I 
thought  I  ought  to  favor  her,  I  have  gone  back  to  my 
usual  style  of  playing,  and  now  beat  her  five  times  out 
of  six. 

Her  patience,  which  is  not  great,  is  quicklv  ex- 
hausted under  these  conditions,  and  she  gets  as  angry  as 
a  cat.  She  first  gets  red,  scowls  a  little,  drums  nerv- 
ously on  the  table,  and  finally,  when  the  case  seems  to 
her  hopeless,  she  sweeps  all  the  checkers  together  with 
her  hand.  I  then  lean  back  majestically  on  my  cush- 
ions and  contemplate  the  beams  of  the  ceiling,  until  she 
gives  in,  which  is  never  long.  She  replaces  the  men, 
pushes  the  board  toward  me,  and  mutters : 

"  It  was  really  too  bad  !  "     Then,  convinced  that  this 


j-Q  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

explains  everything,  she  holds  out  her  closed  hands  to- 
ward me  to  draw,  so  as  to  see  which  is  to  begin,  and 
everything  goes  on  in  the  same  order. 

Invariably,  in  the  beginning,  1  propose  to  give  her 
some  men,  and  also  invariably  she  refuses  with  an  air 
of  offended  dignity,  evidently  considering  her  sweep- 
ing off  the  board  much  more  regular  than  this  favor, 
and  insisting  passionately  at  the  beginning  of  each 
game  that  1  shall  play  with  her  as  1  would  with  any- 
body else,  seriously  and  without  helping  her. 

I,  the  slave  of  orders,  obey,  and  in  five  minutes  more 
she  is  stamping  her  foot :  it  is  logical. 

Just  now  we  were  engaged  in  a  skirmish  ;  1  saw  her 
getting  herself  in  a  scrape,  and  twice  running,  without 
meaning  to  do  so,  I  swept  off  four  victims  at  a  blow. 
You  may  fancy  her  state  of  mind  :  she  bit  her  under 
lip  so  that  the  blood  receded,  and  she  looked  over  the 
board  with  the  despairing  glance  of  a  swimmer  who 
has  lost  footing. 

Prudently  I  drew  back  my  fingers,  foreseeing  some 
formidable  blow ;  but  things  changed,  her  brow  sud- 
denly cleared,  her  lip  resumed  its  natural  appearance, 
and,  with  her  fingers  on  one  of  the  men,  she  conducted 
it  obliquely  across  the  board,  pushing  off  such  of  my 
men  as  were  in  her  way,  without  violence,  and  without 
ai)pearing  to  know  that  she  was  going  against  the  rules. 

At  the  cOi'^Q  she  stopped,  and  said,  very  gravely  : 

"  Your  turn  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  l)\-  my  turn?  What  are  you 
doing?  "  I  asked. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


171 


"  Well,"  she  replied  with  superb  calm,  "  I  am  going 
to  make  a  queen.  I  should  never  get  there  as  we  were 
going,  so  I  have  taken  another  way." 

In  everything  there  is  this  same  contempt  for  bar- 
riers and  rules ;  this  untutored  nature  would  not  be  out 
of  place  in  a  tribe  of  wild  Indians.  I  can  imagine  her 
in  her  tent,  with  feathers  in  her  hair,  a  string  of  flowers 
around  her  shoulders,  rivaling  the  wild  goats  in  her 
capers,  and  baptized  by  the  enthusiastic  tribe  as  "  Sing- 
ing Bird  "  or  "  Flying  Arrow." 

In  the  mean  w^hile.  Flying  Arrow  performs  her  duties 
as  mistress  of  the  house,  and  does  her  best  to  amuse  me. 

For  a  week  I  have  been  able  to  get  up.  Aided  by 
Benoite,  whose  strong  shoulder  serves  me  as  a  cane,  I 
reach  an  arm  -  chair 
placed  near  a  window, 
I  extend  my  leg  in 
its  splints  in  another 
chair  in  front  of  me, 
and,  with  Mademoi- 
selle Colette  as  a 
guide,  I  learn  to  know 
the  court  and  the 
principal  points  of  the 
chateau.  "  There," 
she  says,  "  is  the  li- 
brary, there  the  dining-room,  there  the  chapel,  and 
there  " — showing  me  the  ruins  this  time — "  were  the 
drawing-rooms,  a  large  guard-room,  an  oratory,  and 
numerous  galleries." 


172 


THE    STORY   OJ-    COLETTE. 


The  whole — ruins  and  remaining  portions — is  superb; 
it  is  pure  Louis  XI 11  style,  both  elegant  and  severe; 
and  there  is  sculpture  which  makes  me  dream,  and  on 
which  I  sincerely  compliment  the  chatelaine  of  the  j)lace, 
who  criticises  and  appreciates  it  with  her  usual  (origi- 
nality. 

When  1  tell  you  that  I  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Frangoise,  the  third  of  Mademoiselle  Colette's  attach- 
ments, you  will  agree  with  me  that  1  know  all  that  is 
necessary,  and  that  1  can  leave  Erlange. 

Yesterday  was  a  superb  day,  dry  and  bright ;  one 
side  of  the  window  was  open,  in  spite  of  the  keen  air, 
and  1  was  breathing  it  with  delight,  when  1  saw  my 
young  nurse  cross  the  court.  She  looked  up  as  she 
passed  and  made  a  little  sign  to  me  with  her  hand,  and 
ran  to  the  door  of  the  servants'  quarters  which  opens  on 
the  court. 

"  1  want  to  show  you  Frangoise,"  she  cried. 

She  came  out  in  a  moment  with  a  big,  short-winded, 
half-blind  animal,  with  a  large  body,  huge  neck,  four 
long,  thin  legs,  and  a  whitey-yellow  coat. 

Utterly  indifferent  to  this  ugliness,  she  talked  to  the 
beast,  patted  her,  stuffed  her  with  sugar  and  bread,  and 
all  so  quicklv  that  the  poor  old  marc  could  not  eat  what 
was  given  her.     When  she  had  ended — 

"  She  does  not  trot  badlv — vou  shall  see,"  she  called 
to  me. 

She  threw  a  blanket  upon  her.  dragged  her  to  the 
stone  steps,  and  sprang  on  \\vv  hack  like  a  lairw  and, 
excitin"'  her  with   her  voice,  made  her  start  on  a  trot. 


THE   STORY   OF   COLETTE.  j^j 

The  animal  stumbled  on  all  the  stones,  she  threw  up  her 
big  head  in  fear,  and  with  her  smoking  nostrils  she  re- 
sembled the  beast  in  the  Apocalypse,  carrying  off  some 
unhappy  spirit  on  its  uncertain  course. 

"  That  is  a  game  at  which  you  may  break  your 
neck  !  "  I  cried  to  Mademoiselle  d'Erlange. 

"  Bah  !  "  she  replied  ;  "  we  know  each  other  very 
well." 

At  the  tenth  round  she  let  herself  slide  down  to  the 
ground  so  quickly  that  I  thought  she  had  fallen,  and 
took  her  friend  back  with  the  same  protestations  of  ten- 
derness that  she  had  lavished  on  her  as  she  brought  her 
out. 

This  is  how  she  speaks  to  animals,  and  I  am  not  sur- 
prised that  she  has  nothing  left  for  men — she  gives  them 
her  whole  heart. 

In  all  probability  I  shall  write  to  you  the  next  time 
from  the  village,  I  shall  only  remain  there  long  enough 
to  pay  a  visit  of  thanks  to  my  hostesses,  to  see  my  good 
doctor,  and  to  inform  you  of  my  plans. 

Turn  the  page,  for  the  adventure  is  over,  and  I  shall 
probably  see  you  soon.  I  have  missed  so  many  steam- 
ers already  that  I  am  tempted  to  let  still  another  sail 
without  me,  so  as  to  go  and  see  you  in  your  country 
home. 


April  2Sth. 
All  is  over.     M.  de  Civreuse  went  yesterday,  and  I 
feel  lost  here. 

It  is  true  I  have  known  Erlange  empty  and  silent 


174 


THE   STORY   OF  COLETTE. 


before,  and  I  have  been  used  to  hearinj^  mv  steps  re- 
sound in  the  halls,  and  my  voice  against  the  wood-work, 
but  all  is  changed  now. 

It  was  only  tediousness  before  ;  now  it  is  sadness, 
and  the  things  weigh  diflferentl}'. 

From  time  to  time  I  try  to  be  brave,  and  play  a  little 
comedy  to  myself.  I  put  things  in  order,  I  go  and 
come,  and  hum  gav  little  airs;  then  I  sit  df)wn  beside 
my  dog,  I  take  his  head  on  mv  knees,  and  I  talk  to  him 
as  1  used  to;  cjnlv,  even  with  him,  I  detect  mvsclf  in 
saying  what  is  not  true. 

"  Six  weeks  to  mend  a  broken  leg,  '  One,'  is  enor- 
mous," I  said  to  him  just  now,  "and  we  would  never 
have  thought  it  could  last  so  long,  would  we?" 

This  is  not  true — it  is  not  true  at  all,  for  I  counted 
on  twice  as  long,  at  least  for  the  present,  and  on  alwavs 
for  later. 

Benoite  looks  at  me  uneasilv.  She  is  not  free  from 
the  suspicion,  or  at  least  fear,  of  a  little  sentiment,  and 
she  would  willingly  keep  me  by  her ;  but  that  is  what  I 
do  not  want,  so  I  pretend  that  the  carrving  back  of  my 
belongings  occupies  me,  and  escape. 

In  reality,  1  do  nothing  at  all.  and  1  have  left  cvcrv- 
thing  as  it  was  yeslerdav,  for  1  dare  not  return  to  mv 
old  room.  There  are  so  many  associations  in  everv  cor- 
ner that  they  overpower  me  when  I  go  in,  and  I  could 
not  sleep  there  for  the  present.  1  should  be  afraid  that 
all  the  ghosts  would  find  out  \w\  secret,  and  go  and  tell 
it  to  M.  Pierre,  who  would  laugh  over  it  perhai)S,  and 
I  want   to  come   here   onl\-  to  dream.      In  the  librarv  I 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


175 


weep,  I  regret,  1  get  angry,  1  do  as  I  like ;  then,  when 
I  am  myself  again,  it  is  my  hour  for  recreation.  I  take 
the  well-known  way,  1  sit  down  in  my  usual  place,  I 
look  at  the  empty  bed,  the  arm-chair  near  the  window, 
with  no  one  in  it,  and  1  remember  ! 

Often,  too,  1  get  angry.  After  all,  what  did  this 
man  come  here  for?  Why  has  he  found  a  place  in  my 
head  and  heart,  since  he  wants  nothing  from  me  ?  And 
what  power  is  it  which  sends  thus  a  beginning  of  happi- 
ness, just  what  is  needed  for  happiness,  which  lets  you 
appreciate  it,  look  well  at  it,  and  which  snatches  it  away 
at  the  very  moment  when  you  close  your  hand,  thinking 
to  hold  it  ? 

Is  this  what  is  called  Providence  ? 

Still,  one  must  be  just ;  M.  de  Civreuse  did  nothing 
to  attract  me,  and  I  even  think  it  was  his  coldness  which 
struck  and  won  me. 

Gloomy  as  he  was,  he  sometimes  smiled,  and  there 
is  a  special  charm  in  the  smile  of  those  who  are  habitu- 
ally cold.  It  is  like  the  winter  sun,  or  like  the  aloe- 
flower  of  which  M.  Pierre  told  me,  which  blossoms  but 
once  in  a  hundred  years,  and  whose  rarity  gives  it  its 
value.  Why  should  I  have  been  taken  by  so  rare  a 
flower  ? 

Our  last  day  was  the  best  of  all,  and  1  am  not  sure 
that  even  he  did  not  feel  a  very  little  emotion. 

When  I  came  in  at  my  usual  hour  in  the  morning,  I 
found  near  his  arm-chair  a  table  on  which  were  paper,  a 
box  of  paints,  and  a  bundle  of  brushes  and  pencils.  Be- 
noite  gave  him  a  glass,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  gone  out — 


3-5  ^■^/^'     "^TOKY   OF   COLETTE. 

"  Would  you  be  willing,"  he  said,  speaking  quickly, 
"  to  allow  me  to  sketch  your  portrait  in  my  album  ?  I 
have  just  done  this  side  of  the  chateau,  but  my  remem- 
brance of  lulange  would  be  very  incomplete  if  my  sick- 
nurse  was  not  on  the  first  page." 

Of  course  I  answered  yes,  and  1  drew  near  to  see 
what  he  held,  while  1  asked  : 

"How  shall  1  place  myself  —  standing,  sitting,  in 
profile,  or  front  face?"  And  at  the  same  time  I  tried  all 
the  positions. 

He  began  to  laugh,  and,  after  reflecting  a  mo- 
ment— 

"  If  vou  would  be  good  enough  to  seat  yourself  in 
the  large  arm-chair  beside  the  fireplace,  as  vou  were 
the  first  night  when  I  awoke  here,  I  would  be  obliged," 
he  said. 

"  But  without  the  dress,  I  suppose." 

"  Without  the  dress,  unfortunately." 

"  Unfortunately  ?     vShall   I  go  and  put  it  on  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  would  not  dare — " 

"  But  it  will  only  take  a  second — " 

And  1  was  gone  before  he  had  finished  his  phrase. 

As  I  had  said,  I  came  back  in  an  instant.  Only,  the 
skirt  of  the  unknown  ancestress  is  too  long  for  nu- :  it 
was  in  vain  that  I  held  it  uj)  with  both  hands,  my  feet 
caught  in  the  hem,  so  that  I  came  in  stumbling,  and 
when  at  last  1  let  go  of  it  so  as  to  make  a  sweeping 
courtesy  to  M.  de  Civreuse,  it  happened  that  in  going 
toward  the  fireplace  1  fell  hea\il\-  on  m\'  knees. 

M.   Pierre  irave  an  exclamation,  a  sort  ot   crv  which 


BHP| 

^ 

He  went  on  and  on,   raising;  his  eyes  It)  me  every   niDmont. 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


177 


certainly  pleased  me,  and  made  a  motion  as  of  hastily 
rising. 

"And  your  knee  !  "  I  cried.  "  Do  not  move."  Then 
I  quickly  recovered  my  feet  and  seated  myself  in  the 
arm-chair.     But  he  was  uneasy. 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  not  hurt  ?  "  he  said.  "  What 
an  absurd  idea  of  mine  it  was  to  make  you  put  it  on  ! 
Really,  you  have  nothing  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

I  answered  no,  my  heart  beating  a  little — not  from 
my  fall,  but  for  the  anxious  tone  in  the  voice  that  ques- 
tioned me  ;  and  it  was  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  after  I 
had  had  time  to  recover,  before  he  began  to  work. 

He  went  on  and  on,  raising  his  eyes  to  me  ever}' 
moment,  looking  at  me  with  a  persistence  that  was  quite 
embarrassing,  and  making  me  rest — that  is  to  say,  move 
about — every  quarter  of  an  hour.  Luncheon  interrupted 
us,  but  at  two  o'clock  the  sketch  was  finished.  Then  he 
called  me  to  him,  and  I  could  not  help  exclaiming  when 
I  saw  the  paper  he  held  out  to  me : 

"  It  is  I  !     Oh,  but  how  pretty  it  is  ! " 

The  fact  is,  the  pink  little  lady  who  smiled  at  me 
from  the  arm-chair  beside  the  large  dark  chimney-piece, 
the  fire-dogs  showing  clearly  against  the  carving  of  the 
wood-work,  was  a  real  picture,  and  I  could  not  help  ad- 
miring it. 

"  Which  is  pretty  ?  "  M.  de  Civreuse  asked,  sarcas- 
tically ;  "  you  or  the  sketch  ?  " 

"  The  portrait,  of  course  !  " 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment,  smiling,  then,  in  a  very 
different  tone  from  the  one  I  was  acquainted  with,  said : 


178  'J'^fF'    SrOA'V  OF  COLETTE. 

"  The  portrait  is  you,  for  unfortunately  tlic  likeness 
is  good.  There  is  nothing  to  change  in  your  exclama- 
tion." 

I  was  silent;  it  is  perhaps  the  second  time  that  I 
have  heard  a  word  of  praise  from  his  lips,  and  it  moved 
me  more  than  I  could  have  wished.  Still,  I  desired 
very,  very  much  to  have,  as  he  had,  a  souvenir  (jf  the 
charming  time  that  was  slipping  away  fnjm  me,  and  I 
tried  nervously  to  think  of  what  I  could  say  or  do. 

"  And  what  if  T  sketched  your  portrait  ? "  I  began, 
jokingly. 

"  Certainh'.  I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  replied,  very 
seriously.     "  1  will  keep  as  still  as  a  statue." 

"  But  I  do  not  draw  very  well,"  1  stammered,  rather 
frightened  to  find  my  offer  accepted  at  once;  "the  only 
portrait  I  have  ever  done  was  of  '  One.' " 

"  Very  well,"  said  he ;  "1  shall  be  in  excellent  com- 
pany." 

He  held  out  a  drawing-board,  paper,  and  pencils,  and 
turned  his  head  so  that  I  could  get  the  profile. 

"  Will  it  answer  like  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  replied,  "  Perfectly." 

I  was  quite  disconcerted,  and  he  meant  that  1  should 
acknowledge  it. 

However,  I  began  mechanicallv,  looking  at  him  as 
he  had  looked  at  me,  and  thinking  him  handsome,  as  1 
only  wish  that  he  thought  me. 

But  at  t  he  end  of  tiftcc'ii  iniiiutcs  1  was  tired,  nervous, 
and  incapable  of  going  on.  TIk'  luad  o\\  mv  paj)er 
might  have  stood   for  amthing — a  judge's  wig,  a  scare- 


THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE. 


179 


crow,  a  negro  king- ;  and  I  recalled  my  attempts  of  last 
winter  when  I  amused  myself  drawing  my  dog,  and  in 
spite  of  all  my  efforts  gave  my  favorite  the  head  of  a 
sheep,  the  coat  of  a  bear,  and  shaggy  legs  which  even  a 
King  Charles  would  have  been  ashamed  of. 

At  any  other  time  I  should  have  laughed,  but  1 
counted  the  minutes,  thinking  always  of  his  departure ; 
this  disturbed  me,  and  I  felt  the  tears  come  to  my  eyes. 
This  was  what  I  had  sworn  should  not  happen,  and  I 
ran  to  the  fireplace  to  throw  my  paper  in  the  fire, 
crying  : 

"  It  is  impossible  !  I  do  not  know  how  !  "  But  M. 
de  Civreuse  stopped  me. 

"  My  portrait !  "  he  said.  "  Show  me  my  portrait ;  I 
have  the  right  to  see  it." 

I  gave  it  to  him  without  resisting.  He  took  it  and 
looked  at  it  gravely  ;  then,  still  just  as  seriously,  said  : 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  retouch  it?  " 

I  nodded,  and  he  wiped  it  all  out  with  his  handker- 
chief. Then  with  four  strokes  he  made  a  profile  which 
was  a  caricature  of  his  own,  but  so  comically  like  it  that 
it  was  impossible  to  look  at  it  without  laughing. 

Underneath  he  wrote  in  his  large  handwriting: 

"  With  the  respectful  compliments  of  the  patient  to 
the  author,"  and  held  it  out  to  me. 

At  that  moment  the  doctor  entered.  I  was  sick  at 
heart ;  I  knew  that  all  was  over,  and  as  I  left  the  room 
I  heard  the  carriage  ordered  for  M.  de  Civreuse  drive 
into  the  court.  I  rushed  to  my  refuge,  the  drawing  in 
my  hand,  and  there,  alone,  I  looked  at  it.     But  instead 


I  go  THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

of  laughini^,  as  I  had  done  before,  I  saw  the  tears  fall  on 
the  ridiculous  nose,  on  the  bristlinj^  mustache  which  M. 
Pierre  had  made  ;  and  it  was  natural  enough,  for  the 
drawing  resembled  the  original  as  my  dream  resembled 
the  reality. 

A  minute  after,  the  doctor  called  me  back.  M.  de 
Civreuse  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  sup- 
porting himself  on  two  black  crutches,  wliicii  made  me 
feel  dreadfully.  It  seemed  to  me  that  1  had  lamed  him 
for  life.  I  knew  that  I  grew  pale,  and  involuntarily  I 
turned  and  stretched  out  my  hands  to  the  doctor. 

"  It  is  only  for  the  first  days,"  he  said,  smiling,  for  he 
understood  my  fear. 

On  the  ground  were  the  splints  which  had  replaced 
the  plaster  for  the  last  two  weeks. 

"  Let  us  burn  them  together,"  said  M.  de  Civreuse, 
pointing  to  them. 

I  picked  them  up  as  he  had  suggested,  and  we  went 
toward  the  fire  together. 

He  managed  his  crutches  well,  but  the  noise  they 
made  on  the  floor  disturbed  me  so  that  1  did  not  know 
what  I  was  doin"-.  The  doctor  went  out  to  call  Benoite, 
and  I  threw  the  first  and  then  the  second  piece  in  the 
fire. 

With  the  third  my  courage  came  back,  and.  raising 
my  eyes  to  M.  Pierre,  I  succeeded  in  saying  in  a  low 
voice,  but  without  trembling  : 

"  Do  you  forgive  me?  " 

*'  Ah  I  mademoiselle,"  he  cried,  "  I  hoped  there  would 
never  he  any  more  (juestion  of  that  between  us." 


THE    STORY  OF  COLETTE.  igi 

I  thanked  him  with  a  motion  of  my  head,  and  silent- 
ly continued  my  work  on  my  knees  by  the  fireplace, 
almost  at  his  feet,  while  he,  standing,  supporting  him- 
self bv  the  mantel-piece,  towered  above  me  with  his 
whole  height.  How  different  it  all  was  from  what  I 
had  imagined  ! 

In  the  mean  while  Benoite  entered.  She  came  to  say 
good-by  to  the  traveler,  and  advanced  courtesying,  and 
beginning  a  little  speech,  in  which  she  wished  him  good 
luck  and  a  "  God  bless  you  !  " 

He  listened  to  the  end  ;  then,  putting  aside  his 
crutches,  and  supporting  the  wounded  knee  against  the 
arm-chair — 

"  I  can  not  thank  you  with  words  for  all  your  devo- 
tion," he  said,  gayly  ;  "  you  must  allow  me  to  embrace 
you." 

And  taking  the  poor  old  woman,  who  seemed  stupe- 
fied, by  the  shoulders,  he  kissed  her  affectionately  on 
both  cheeks.  Then,  as  the  doctor  called  from  below, 
"  Come,  come,  it  will  be  night  before  we  get  there!"  he 
turned  to  me. 

"  Our  good  doctor  will  be  kind  enough  to  say  good- 
by  for  me  to  Mademoiselle  d'Epine,"  said  he  ;  "  1  did  not 
wish  to  give  you  the  trouble  !  "  He  stopped  a  moment, 
then  more  slowly,  as  if  he  were  seeking  for  words, 
added  :  "  Allow  me,  mademoiselle,  to  express  to  you  my 
gratitude,  not  only  for  your  care,  but  for  the  grace  and 
good-humor  with  which  you  have  enlivened  the  mo- 
noton}"  of  a  sick-room.  It  is  to  be  twice  kind  to  be  so 
in  such  a  manner." 
13 


I82 


TIN:    S'l'ORY   OF   COLETTE. 


I  held  out  mv  hand  unable  to  speak,  for  it  seemed  as 
though   invisible   lingers   were  clutching  at  my  throat. 

He  took  mv  hand,  hesitated 
a  moment  as  he  had  done 
before  speaking,  then  sud- 
den Iv  bent  over  and  touched 
it  with  his  lips.  I  had  no 
suspicion  of  his  intention, 
and  it  was  so  strange  and 
so  unexpected  that  my  eyes 
closed  as  a  mist  rose  before 
them. 
When  I  opened  them  he  was  near  the  door,  with  Be- 
noite  following,  carrying  his  bag.  He  descended  the 
stairs  (piickly  and  without  difficulty,  and  got  into  the 
carriage  without  speaking  ;  onlv,  when  the  horse  start- 
ed, he  leaned  out,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  said  gravelv, 
"  Good-by,  mademoiselle." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  mv  heart  was  sealed  uj)  1)\  a 
stone,  like  the  lums  who  wei"e  shut  in  their  cotfnis  when 
I  saw  tluin  take  the  veil  at  the  convent,  and  I  remem- 
bered the  hole  in  the  snow  in  which  on  a  winter's  day 
I  had  nearly  slept  forever.  Why  had  thev  not  left  me 
there? 

As  long  as  the  carriage  was  in  sight  I  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door;  then,  when  it  had  disaj^peared. 
Benoite,  who  was  watching  me,  said.  "  Will  xou  conic 
and  warm  vourself?" 

"  Yes."  I  said,  "  1  am  coming." 

But   1    ran   awa\'    to   the   bottom   of  the   j)ark.  to  the 


THE    STORY  OF   COLETTE.  183 

pine-tree  on  which   I  had  carved  a  name  a  few  days  be- 
fore. 

The  fresh  sap  as  it  mounted  escaped  by  the  gashes, 
and  each  letter  of  the  name  wept.  I  rested  my  head 
against  the  cold  bark.  To  the  right  and  left,  under  the 
trees,  where  it  was  still  white  in  places,  there  was  no 
one  ;  I  was  alone.  I  pressed  myself  against  the  friends 
who  sympathized  thus  with  my  sorrow,  and  I  wept  like 
them. 


Pierre  to  Jaeques. 

I  write  to  you  from  the  village  inn  where  I  have 
been  for  two  days. 

I  can  not  say  that  it  is  equal  to  my  nest  at  Erlange, 
or  that  I  have  a  bed  with  columns,  or  a  Louis  XIII  fire- 
place. The  beams  of  my  ceiling  are  against  a  back- 
ground of  smoke,  and  the  walls  are  whitewashed — so 
much  so,  that  all  my  clothes  show  the  effect,  and  mv 
sleeves  are  like  those  of  a  miller  when  he  leaves  his  mill 
after  work. 

But  a  traveler  must  expect  such  things,  and  one  does 
not  alwavs  find  a  chateau  for  a  hotel.  The  best  part  is 
that  my  knee  works  perfectly  well.  I  can  use  mv 
crutches  with  the  dexterity  of  a  practiced  invalid,  and  I 
should  go  about  more  were  it  not  for  the  train  of  chil- 
dren who  follow  me  as  soon  as  I  appear. 

Happv  village,  where  a  lame  man  can  be  such  a  cu- 
riosity, and  where  a  crowd  collects  to  see  one  go  by  on 
crutches !     The  species  is  rare,  it  seems. 


1 84  TJIE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

To  amuse  myself,  I  sketch  a  little.  Here  a  bit  of  a 
steeple,  there  a  cloud,  and  a  sheep  feeding  on  the  cloud. 
It  is  very  fantastic,  but  mv  portfolios  are  not  for  the 
exhibition,  and  1  would  not  even  offer  it — what  W(juld 
perhaps  be  more  acceptable — the  portrait  (jf  Mademoi- 
selle d'Erlange,  a  head  from  nature  which  is  certainly 
not  bad  !  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  asked  her  to  sit  for  me, 
and  that  she  consented  to  put  on  the  old-fashioned  dress 
of  my  first  evening  at  her  house  ?  But  I  could  not  have 
told  you,  as  mv  last  letter  to  you  was  written  three  davs 
before  I  left. 

Well,  the  morning  of  the  Mondav  when  1  was  to 
leave  Erlange  I  remembered  my  intention  to  try  and 
sketch  her  fanciful  head,  and  I  succeeded  bevond  mv 
expectations.  The  water-color  w^as  very  quickly  done 
— it  is  only  a  sketch  ;  but  I  think  it  would  lose  in  grace 
what  it  might  gain  in  finish,  and  I  will  leave  it  as  it  is. 
A  smile  must  be  sketched  ;  it  can  not  be  settled  by 
A+B,  especially  a  smile  like  hers;  and  on  the  whole, 
taking  into  consideration  the  coloring,  the  likeness,  and 
putting  modesty  aside,  it  is  a  little  masterpiece  ! 

You  shall  see  it;  it  is  worth  a  journey,  and  I  will 
take  it  to  you  so  as  to  have  your  aj)proval. 

Half  laughing,  half  serious,  Mademoiselle  d'l'lrlange 
wished  to  return  the  compliment,  and  she  made  the 
most  frightful  little  daub  you  can  imagine,  which 
makes  me  think  she  can  never  have  cared  for  draw- 
ing. 

It  was  thus  that  we  si)tMit  our  last  hours  together, 
talking    and   laughing  as   if  the  sound  of  the   wheels  of 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE.  185 

the  carriage  which  was  to  take  me  away  had  not  re- 
sounded in  the  court. 

On  a  funeral-pile,  "  solemn  and  expiatory,"  we  burned 
together  the  splints  which  had  imprisoned  me  for  so 
many  days,  and  the  good-bys  began. 

Undoubtedly,  the  one  who  felt  most  was  Benoitc, 
whom  I  kissed  frankly  on  both  cheeks,  and  who  would 
have  liked,  I  think,  to  shed  a  tear  or  so.  But  what 
could  she  do  among  such  people  as  we  ?  Our  coolness 
froze  her. 

Next  I  took  leave  of  Mademoiselle  Colette  with  a  lit- 
tle compliment,  very  courteous,  very  graceful,  to  which, 
however,  she  did  not  respond  a  word  ;  then  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  me,  and  I  was  off. 

Do  you  regret  now  the  declaration  that  you  ad- 
vised me  to  make  at  the  end,  and  do  you  see  the  ab- 
surditv  of  such  a  situation — a  man  speaking  of  love,  beg- 
ging, praying,  laying  bare  his  soul  so  as  to  obtain  a 
word  or  look  at  the  moment  of  farewell,  and  being 
received  by  a  burst  of  laughter  from  a  foolish  little 
cold-hearted  girl  ?  For  I  am  sure  she  would  have 
laughed  ! 

In  realitv,  I  was  never  more  pleased  to  have  the 
thing  over,  and  to  feel  that  my  heart  was  calm  and  un- 
moved, like  an  honest  warrior  who  retires  from  glory 
with  his  scars.  All  this  makes  me  sleep  without  dreams, 
even  on  a  bag  of  straw,  and  it  is  something  to  be  sure  of 
one's  sleep  ! 

My  leave-taking  with  Mademoiselle  d'Epine  will  be 
done  by  procuration.      The    doctor  accepts  the  ofifice ; 


1 86  if  J'-    STOJ^y  OF  COLETTE. 

and  as  for  "  One,"  I  will  not  speak  of  him — was  it  not 
said  long  ago  that  "  the  best  part  of  man  is  the  dog  "  ? 
And  now  1  will  leave  you  ;  it  is  the  hour  when  the 
flocks  are  let  out  into  the  village  streets  while  their 
stables  are  cleaned  ;  it  amuses  me  to  see  them  pass, 
and  I  make  some  fine  sketches. 


l^iirrc  io  Jixci]iics. 

You  do  not  believe  me,  do  vou,  Jacques  ?  You 
knew  the  truth,  and  you  know  that  for  a  month  1  have 
lied  to  you,  X.o  my  head  and  heart,  to  everybodv,  even 
to  this  love  which  has  taken  complete  possession  of 
me,  and  which  yet  I  hide  as  though  this  incomparable 
happiness  of  loving  passionately  were  a  shameful  thing. 

Yes,  I  love  her  I  Yes,  I  adore  her !  And  that  bra- 
vado which  you  received  this  morning  was  the  last. 
Are  you  satisfied  ? 

My  letter  had  no  sooner  gone  just  now.  than  I  re- 
called the  child  who  had  taken  it ;  I  wanted  to  stop 
it,  to  take  it  back;  mv  pride  was  thrown  down  and 
had  vanished  so  comjjletclv  that  I  looked  in  vain  for 
a  trace  of  it,  and  I  asked  mvself  wliat  the  ridiculous 
seiitiriient  was  that  forbade  me  to  confess  that  1  had 
been  in  love  for  weeks,  because  formerly  I  had  vowed 
hatred  to  the  whole  human  race,  and  had  closed  my 
heart  antl  written  Dc  profntuiis  ab(n-e  it,  ancl  that  this 
sudden  defeat  by  a  child  was  revolting  to  my  pride. 

It  is  the  garland  of  llowiTS  of   the   fairy-lale  against 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE. 


187 


which  the  sharpest  sword  is  broken  !  This  time  it  is  a 
smile  of  eighteen  which  has  got  the  better  of  all  my 
dislikes  and  mistrusts. 

And  I,  like  a  fool,  instead  of  rejoicing,  was  deter- 
mined to  go  on  doubting,  because  the  pedestal  of  dis- 
dain and  skepticism  flattered  my  vanity  and  made  me 
taller  ! 

You  are  disgusted  with  me !  But  you  can  see, 
Jacques,  that  I  am  ready  to  do  penance,  and  that  if  my 
heart  is  in  the  clouds  my  forehead  is  in  the  dust.  What 
more  do  you  want  ? 

Yes,  1  believe  in  the  return  of  youth,  for  I  am  only 
twenty  this  evening,  and  all  my  illusions  have  come 
back.  1  believe  in  everything,  even  in  goodness  !  but, 
above  all,  in  love  ;  and  3'ou  must  not  complain,  for  it 
contains  everything — both  wisdom  and  folly. 

Did  you  really  believe,  my  friend,  that  for  two  days 
I  have  been  drawing  sheep  on  clouds  and  peasants  in 
petticoats  ?  The  truth  is,  1  have  just  torn  up  the  twen- 
tieth letter  1  have  written  her  since  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, and  that  I  shall  soon  begin  another  ;  and  that  if 
I  can  not  manage  to  tell  her  all  the  foolish  things  to 
which  my  heart  tempts  me,  in  the  language  that  I  wish 
to  speak  to  her,  1  will  go  up  this  evening  to  Erlange, 
and  I  will  kneel  to  her  in  the  large  room  where  1  have 
known  her,  and  I  will  tell  her  that  I  adore  her. 

You  are  thinking  of  my  crutches !  I  have  made  a 
bonfire  of  my  crutches,  Jacques — a  fire  in  which  I  have 
cast  all  my  doubts  and  all  my  past  life,  so  as  to  re- 
member only  to-day  and  to-morrow  ;  and,  to  climb  the 


1 88  'riJE    STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

mountain-road,  do  vtni  not  think  that  I  have  the  wing's 
of  love  ? 

llow  1  should  like  vou  to  know  her  I  IIa\e  I  de- 
scribed her  to  vou  well  in  niv  inoroseness,  and  do 
you  understand  that  the  foolishness  and  childishness  of 
which  I  complained  are  perhaps  what  I  like  best  in 
her?  Nothing  less  than  this  freshness  and  originality 
were  needed  to  revive  mv  youth  and  benumbed  life, 
as  those  new  |)crfunies  do  which  are  like  nothing  else, 
and  which  reach  even  the  most  blunted  senses. 

She  is  a  charming  wild-flower  which  has  blossomed 
between  earth  and  sky  for  me,  and  for  me  alone.  Un- 
til now  she  has  loved  but  the  stars  and  her  dreams; 
the  mountain-breeze  alone  has  touched  her,  and  she 
unites  in  herself  all  womanh-  graces  with  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  Nature. 

With  her  hand  in  one  of  mine,  and  Nours  in  the 
other,  the  world  is  full  for  me,  and  m\-  happiness  is  so 
great  that  there  is  but  one  thing  to  which  1  can  com- 
pare it — infinity. 

Think  of  nie  this  evening,  Jacques.  I  am  going  up 
there;  1  can  stav  here  no  longer.  1  long  for  the  air 
of  Erlange.  If  I  have  to  write  instead  of  speaking,  I 
can  find  a  shelter  among  the  ruins;  iind  to  write  words 
of  love  will  not  the  moonlight  suffice  •* 

I  send  vou  her  ])ortrait  ;  I  want  vou  to  sec  her.  To- 
morrow the  original  will  he  mine,  or  else  you  uia\"  keep 
this  forever ;  it  will  be  my  last  legacy. 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 


189 


April  joih. 

"  My  God,  my  happiness  is  too  great,  too  sudden, 
and  it  overpowers  me!  Help  me  to  bear  it  well!" 
This  was  my  first  cry  ;  and  yet,  half  an  hour  later,  I 
did  not  know  whether  I  had  wept,  and  my  joy  was  so 
completely  a  part  of  myself  that  I  could  not  remember 
that  I  had  not  always  had  it. 

Yesterday,  at  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I 
was  sitting  alone  in  M.  de  Civreuse's  room — I  still  call 
it  so — and  doing  nothing,  my  hands  lying  idle  in  my 
lap,  but  dreaming. 

Benoite  had  been  gone  some  time  ;  nothing  was  stir- 
ring around  me,  and  I  felt  myself  so  utterly  alone  that 
the  noise  of  my  own  movements  made  me  tremble  with 
fright. 

Suddenly,  outside,  on  the  road  to  the  village,  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  stones  rolling  and  a  man's  footsteps. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  so  loudly  that  I  could  count 
its  strokes.  "  Some  belated  peasant,"  I  said  to  myself ; 
"a  peddler  who  is  returning."  But  when  he  was  under 
my  window  the  man  stopped,  and  my  agitation  became 
such  that  the  mark  of  the  wood  of  the  arm-chair  I 
involuntarily  clasped  was  printed  on  the  palms  of  my 
hands.     "  It  is  he  !  "  I  said  to  myself. 

He  !  Who  ?  M.  de  Civreuse,  who  went  off  two  days 
before  on  crutches?  Impossible!  And  still,  after  a 
second,  a  voice  which  was  restrained,  though  vibrating, 
and  that  I  knew  well,  came  up  to  me,  and  I  heard  the 
words : 

"  Do  not  be  afraid." 


190 


Tin-:  sroKY  of  colktte. 


If  iiiv  life  had  been  at  stalce,  I  could  neither  have 
moved  iKjr  spoken.  1  remained  a  moment  in  susj:)ense  ; 
then  a  stone,  the  size  of  a  wahiut,  ver\-  skillfiillv  thrown, 
came  through  one  of  the  little  window-panes,  ami  fell  at 
my  feet. 

A  paper  was  folded  around  it,  and  when  1  had  re- 
covered from  mv  fright  I  picked 
it  up. 

The  writing  of  M.  de  Civreuse 
covered  two  sides  ;  ami  this  is 
what  1  read  : 

"  Colette,   forgive  the  follv  of 
this  note,  and  forgive,  above  all, 
the   foolish    wav   in  which    I    send 
it  to   vou ;  but   can  anvthing   be- 
tween us  resemble  what  goes  on  elsewhere? 

"  Besides,  Erlange  is  an  enchanted  castle  at  this 
hour;  everything  is  shut,  there  is  no  door  at  which  I 
dare  knock. 

"  Benoite  is  asleep,  1  am  sure  ;  there  is  but  one  lamp 
w^hich  shines  here; 'that  I  know  well,  for  it  is  toward 
this  point,  the  star  of  mv  heart,  that  1  have  been  walk- 
ing for  two  hours. 

"If  it  had  been  higher  uj)  and  faithci-  off.  1  must 
have  come  to  it  all  the  same  to-night,  without  being 
able  to  wait  for  the  dav,  because  this  word  that  1  am 
going  to  say  to  vou  has  been  in  mv  heart  and  on  my 
lips  for  a  long  time  already  ;  because  that  foi"  six  weeks 
1  have  re[)eat('(l  it  to  nnsclt  night  and  morning:  and 
that  after  haxiiiij:  nuii'innred  to  \'ou  so  ottrn  that   I  adore 


THE    STORY   OT   COLETTE. 


191 


you,  without  your  ever  hearing,  I  want  now  to  say  it  so 
loud  that  my  words  may  not  only  reach  your  ears,  but 
go  to  the  depths  of  your  heart. 

"  I  love  voLi.  But  I  do  not  want  to  tell  you  now  how 
I  love  you  :  I  want  to  see  your  eyes  and  your  smile 
while  I  speak  to  you,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  lose  one 
minute  of  3'our  charm  henceforth.  1  know  what  it  is  to 
spend  two  days  away  from  it ! 

"  Now,  do  not  tell  me  that  you  will  not  have  my 
love,  and  that  you  refuse  all  the  life  and  passion  which  I 
place  at  your  feet.  Have  you  never  thought,  my  poor 
child,  how  easy  it  would  be  for  a  resolute  man  to  come 
in  the  night  to  your  solitude,  to  take  you  and  carry  you 
off  so  far  that  no  traces  of  you  could  be  found  ? 

"  Besides,  1  firmly  believe  there  are  things  which 
from  all  eternity  are  written  in  heaven.  They  are  rare, 
but  the}^  are  perfect,  for  God  himself  has  signed  them, 
and  our  marriage  is  one  of  them. 

"  Colette,  in  this  road,  where  you  threw  me  on  my 
knees  one  morning  without  intending  it,  I  am  waiting 
for  your  answer,  as  you  found  me  there  that  winter  day. 

"  Forgive  me  the  broken  window  ;  I  think  it  is  the 
sacred  window,  and  I  chose  it  knowingly,  because  I 
believe  superstitiously  in  it,  as  the  way  happiness  came 
to  me. 

"  When  we  go  away  together,  if  the  joy  of  carrving 
you  off  is  granted  me,  I  will  take  with  you  that  little 
statuette  you  know  of,  to  which  I  have  vowed  passion- 
ate gratitude,  for  without  it,  Colette,  I  should  have 
passed  by  ! " 


192  THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE. 

As  I  read,  passionate  joy  filled  my  heart,  and  I  could 
not  believe  in  the  reality  of  mv  happiness.  Was  it  pos- 
sible? Was  it  really  he?  What!  he  hned  me,  he  had 
loved  mc  for  a  lon^^  time,  my  wish  accomplished,  and 
my  suffering  become  a  bad  dream  ?  At  the  same  time, 
surprise  at  his  long  silence  overcame  me.  Wh}-  speak 
so  late?  What  reason  had  he  for  leaving  me  to  weep 
as  he  had  done  ? 

Then,  after  this  happy  emotion,  the  old  nature  re- 
vived in  me,  and  all  the  elves  of  mischief  that  my  tears 
had  drowned  for  two  days  shook  their  wings  and  flew 
out  together. 

They  had  been  compassionate  when  I  wept,  and  had 
kept  discreetly  out  of  sight ;  but  this  hour  of  joy  was 
theirs,  thev  claimed  it,  and  the  wildest  ideas  mingled 
with  one  another,  each  wanting  its  wav. 

"  Sav  ves  at  once!"  counseled  mv  heart.  ]iitv- 
inglv. 

"Never!"  cried  the  others.  "Do  not  forget  our 
plans,  Colette.  He  must  be  made  to  suffer;  do  not 
open  your  hands  so  quickly  !  " 

So  that  I  did  not  know  to  which  to  listen,  and  I 
laughed  with  tears  in  mv  eves,  like  davs  when  the  skv 
is  imcertain,  and  the  rain  falls  mixed  with  sunshine — 
fine  weather  or  stormv — one  does  not  know  which. 

I  lowever,  I  went  to  the  window  and  opened  it.  At 
the  noise,  a  profile  in  the  shadow  made  a  sudden  move- 
ment. I  saw  it  badlv,  because  1  was  placed  in  full  light, 
and  it  w;is  in  the  shadow.  1  guessed,  ho\ve\'er,  that  it 
was  going  to  sj)eak  ;    1   leaned  ovc-i',  and  (he  strangeness 


THE   STORY  OF  COLETTE.  193 

of  an  explanation  at  a  distance  suddenly  struck  me  so 
forcibly  that  my  gayety  carried  the  day. 

"  M.  de  Civreusc,"  I  cried,  "are  you  on  your  knees?" 

"  Colette,"  he  only  said,  "  answer  me,  I  beg." 

I  had  not  expected  such  a  tone.  As  he  hoped,  it 
penetrated  into  my  very  soul ;  and  agitated,  troubled, 
I  could  not  think  of  a  word  to  say,  and  I  repeated 
mechanically  the  phrase  which  was  in  my  head  the 
moment  before : 

"  Because  I  had  sworn  to  leave  you  there  a  long 
time,  for — " 

"For — ?"  he  repeated,  anxiously. 

"  For  I  have  been  waiting  so  long." 

But  he  did  not  hear,  I  had  spoken  too  low  ;  besides, 
my  voice  trembled  too  much. 

He  was  patient  a  second  more,  then  he  called  to  me 
in  the  same  tone  which  had  moved  me  so  deeply. 

I  was  incapable  of  answering,  and  I  ran  away,  cry- 
ing: 

"  Wait !  " 

There  were  still  two  blank  leaves  to  my  journal,  this 
and  another.  I  tore  out  one,  and  hastily,  without  re- 
flecting, wrote  this : 

"  Do  not  carry  me  off,  M.  de  Civreuse ;  it  would 
bring  you  into  trouble  with  the  courts;  and,  besides, 
there  is  no  retreat  where  I  could  be  made  to  stay  if  I 
did  not  wish  to. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  best  bolt  you  can  have  :  my 
heart  will  be  wherever  you  take  me. 

"  Be  very  sure  that  I  shall  not  forget  Saint  Joseph  ; 


194  '^'^^^   STOKY  OJ-    COLETTE. 

he  has  done  even  more  for  nic  than  vou  think;  and 
thtrc  is  a  certain  old  woman  also,  to  whom  1  will  tell 
you  my  obligations,  since  you  arc  fond  of  being  grate- 
ful. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  story  some  moonlight  evening 
like  this :  tii'st,  because  I  like  moonlight ;  then  because, 
if  happiness  came  to  \-ou  on  a  winter  mc^rning,  it  has 
just  come  to  me  on  an  evening  of  sj)ring." 


Pierre  to  J  deques. 

Jacques,  we  are  engaged — give  me  your  hand  ;  if 
you  loUow  me,  1  will  lead  you  into  paradise. 

The  cure  of  Fond-de-\'ieux  consents  to  come  and 
marry  us  here  ;  workmen  are  in  the  chapel,  restoring  it 
in  haste:  it  will  be  read}-  in  three  weeks,  and  we  shall 
have  June  flowers  to  perfiuiie  it. 

I  can  not  tell  vou  now  how  I  forced  Mademoiselle 
d'Epine  to  give  her  consent  ;  i  am  not  sure  that  I  did 
not  use  violence  ;  and  in  revenge,  under  pretext  of  tak- 
ing care  of  the  proj)rieties,  she  never  leaves  us ! 

Strangers  and  comrades,  we  were  free;  engaged, 
and  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  we  are  watched,  and  that 
woman  is  mv  torment ! 

At  first  I  thought  of  brcakiuir  another  lejr,  and  now 
1  am  teaching  Colette  Latin.  \Vc  do  not  need  much, 
for  the  word  we  repeat  is  always  the  same! 

The  evening  of  my  marriage,  faithful  to  mv  j'lan,  I 
shall  carry  Colette  off,  if  not  to  India,  at   least  higher  up 


THE    STORY   OF   COLETTE.  jgg 

than  Erlange.  Sometimes  goatherds  pass  here,  and  I 
want  no  spectators  in  my  Eden. 

In  autumn  1  think  all  will  be  ready.  We  are  restor- 
ing our  ruins,  and  ycm  must  choose  your  rooms  in  the 
crumbling  towers  or  elsewhere,  one  of  these  days  ;  all 
is  yours. 

There  is  only  one  spot  which  must  not  be  changed. 
You  guess  which,  and  you  must  watch  oyer  it,  iriend,  if 
you  sometimes  come  to  represent  me,  during  my  ab- 
sence :  it  is  the  large  room  with  oak  panels  into  which 
Benoite  and  the  good  doctor  carried  me  one  day  uncon- 
scious. 


'^r  iS^,;   ^ 


D.  APPLETON    &    CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

(STRAIGHT    ON.      A    story  of    a 

*^       boy's  school-life  in  France.     By  the 

author  of  "  The   Story  of  Colette." 

With     Eighty-six     Illustrations     by 

Edouard   Zier.      320  pages.      i2mo. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

Few  books  have  appeared  in  recent  years  which 
appeal  so  strongly  to  the  better  sentiments  of  young 
people  as  does  "  Straight  On."  It  is  a  deeply  inter- 
esting record  of  thu  experiences  of  a  French  officer's 
son,  who,  being  left  an  orphan  at  an  early  age, 
resided  with  relatives  while  attending  a  military 
school  for  a  term  of  years.  The  tips  and  downs  of 
-^-  -  his  life  in   the   new  home    and  at   school,  the   hoy 

adopting  hi-;  father's  last  words — wl.ich  give  the 
book  its  title— for  his  motto,  make  an  absorbing  narrative,  culminating  in  an  act  of 
heroism  which  delights  the  reader  while  it  clears  up  a  mystery  in  which  several  cadets 
have  been  involved.     The  story  is  charmingly  told  and  appropriately  illustrated. 

YOUNG    HEROES    OF    OUR    NAVY. 

Tl^IDSHIPMAN'  PA  ULDING.     A  true  story  of  the  War 

IVI  of  1812.      By   Molly    Elliot    Seawell,    author  of  "Little 

Jarvis."      With   Six  full-page   Illustrations  by  J.  O.  Davidson 

and  George  Wharton  Edwards.    8vo.     Bound  in  blue  cloth, 

with  special  design  in  gold  and  colors.     $1.00. 

"  '  Midshipman  Paulding'  is  the  latest  of  Miss  M.  E.  Seawell's  contribuions  to  the 
series  of  'Young  Heroas  of  our  Navy.'  It  is  a  very  entertaining  and  inspiriting 
account  of  the  late  admiral's  march  when  a  boy  in  conducting  some  of  Uncle  Sam's 
tars  to  join  the  forces  at  Albany  which  fought  the  British  on  Lake  Champlain.  The 
young  officer's  good  conduct  and  fertility  of  resource  in  the  battle  are  told  in  a  way 
to  fascinate  the  young  x\\\nAy  —Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"The  story  reads  Hke  a  fiction,  and  a  very  entertaining  one;  but  it  is  founded 
on  the  facts  concerning  a  ga'lant  officer  of  our  early  navy,  whose  career  was  rounded 
off  at  the  surrender  of  the  British  fleet  on  Lake  Champlain.  The  book  is  well  illus- 
trated."— Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  A  little  volume  in  large  type,  with  an  unusual  number  of  capital  illustrations. 
It  is  a  real  nugget  for  boys,  and  will  be  just  as  likely  to  entrance  children  of  a  larger 
gfrowth." — Neiv  York  yournal  of  Commerce. 

NEW  EDITION. 

T  ITTLE  JARVIS.     The   story  of  the  heroic   midshipman 
J-^     of  the  frigate   "Constellation."     By  Molly  Elliot  Sea'well. 
With  Six  full-page  Illustrations  by  J.  O.  Davidson  and  George 
Wharton  Edwards.     8vo.     Bound  uniformly  with  "  Midship- 
man Paulding."     $1.00. 

"  Founded  on  a  true  incident  in  our  naval  history.  ...  So  well  pictured  as  to 
bring  both  smiles  and  tears  upon  the  faces  that  are  bent  over  the  volume.  It  is  in  ex- 
actly the  spirit  for  a  boy's  book." — New  York  Home  Journal. 

New  York:    D.  APPLETON    &   CO.,   i.  3>  &  5  Bond  Street. 


M^ 


D.  APPLETON    &    CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

FICTION    SERIES   FOR   YOUNG    READERS. 
JUST  PUBLISHED. 

E  ALL.      A    story    of  out-door   life    and    adventure    in 


Arkansas.     By  Octave  Thanet.     With   12  full-page  Illustra- 
tions by  E.  J.  Austen  and  others. 

"  A  stor>-  which  every  boy  will  read  with  unalloyed  pleasure.  .  .  .  The  adventures 
of  the  two  cousins  are  full  of  e.vcitinjj  interest,  particularly  the  account  of  the  hog-hunt, 
which  carries  one  breathlessly  along  by  its  moving,  spirited,  and  truthful  pictures. 
The  characters,  both  white  and  black,  are  sketched  dirtctly  from  nature,  for  the 
author  is  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  customs  and  habits  of  the  different  types  of 
Southerners  that  she  has  so  effectively  reproduced." — Boston  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette. 


L 


C 


ITTLE  SMOKE.  A  story  of  the  Sioux  Indians.  By 
William  O.  Stoddard.  "With  12  full-page  Illustrations  by 
F.  S.  Dellenbaugh,  portraits  of  Sitting  Bull,  Red  Cloud,  and 
other  chiefs,  and  72  head  and  tail  pieces  representing  the  various 
implements  and  surroundings  of  Indian  life. 

PREVIOUSLY  PUBLISHED  IN  SAME  SERIES. 

ROWDED  OUT  O'  CROEIELD.  By  William  O.  Stod- 
dard. The  story  of  a  country  boy  who  fought  his  way  to  success 
in  the  great  metropolis.      With  23  Illustrations  by  C.  T.  Hill. 

"  There  are  few  writers  who  know  how  to  meet  the  tastes  and  needs  of  boys  better 
than  does  William  O.  Stoddard.  This  excellent  story  is  interesting,  thoroughly 
wholesome,  and  teaches  boys  to  be  men,  not  prigs  or  Indian  hunters.  If  our  boys 
would  read  more  such  books,  and  less  of  the  blood -and-thunder  order,  it  would  be 
rare  good  fortune." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

jy^ING    TOM   AND     THE    RUNAWAYS.      By    Louis 

•^^     Pendleton.     The  experiences  of  two  boys  in  the  forests  of 

Georgia.     With  6  Illustrations  by  E.  W.  Kemble. 

"The  doings  of  'King'  Tom,  Albert,  and  the  happy -go  lucky  boy  Jim  on  the 
swamp-island,  are  as  entertaining  in  their  way  as  the  old  sagas  embcditd  in  Scandi- 
navian story." — FItiladelphia  Ledger. 

n-^HE  LOG   SCHOOL- HO  USE   ON   THE  COLUMBIA. 
-*         By  Hezekiah   Butterworth.     WMth  13  full-page  Illustrations 
by  J.  Carter   Beard,  E.  J.  Austen,  and  others. 

"This  book  will  charm  all  who  turn  its  pages.  There  are  few  books  of  popular 
information  concerning  the  pioneers  of  the  great  Northwest,  and  this  one  is  worthy 
of  sincere  praise."— i"<?<7///^  Post-Intelligencer. 


The  above  are  bound  uniformly,  in  cloth,  with  special  design  in 
silver.     8vo.     $1.50  each. 

New  York :  I).  APPLETON  &  CO.,  I,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street 


D.   APPLETON    &    CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 


RECENT    FICTION. 

"The  Leading  Novel  ot   the  Year." 

'J^BE  FAITH  FjOCTOR.      By  Edward   Eggleston,  au- 
J-        thor  of  "  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  "The  Circuit  Rider,"  etc.     i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"Dr.  E^ifgleston  has  made  a  distinct  advance  in  his  Hterarj'  work  in  'The  Faith 
Doctor,'  the  latest  novel  from  his  pen.  Dr.  Eggleston  s  writing  is  really  American 
in  its  character,  without  making  much  parade  or  profession  on  this  point ;  but  he  has 
taken  a  new  phase  of  American  life  in  this  book,  and  has  treated  it  very  ably,  besides 
evincing  an  increase  of  literary  skill.  "^ — Boston  Herald. 

"An  excellent  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  With  each  new  novel  the  author  cf  'The 
Hoosier  Schoolmaster '  enlarges  his  audience  and  surprises  old  friends  by  reserve 
forces  unsuspected.  Sterling  integrity  of  character  and  high  moral  motives  illuminate 
Dr.  Eggleston's  fiction,  and  assure  its  place  in  the  literature  of  America,  which  is  to 
stand  as  a  worthy  reflex  of  the  best  thought  of  this  age." — Neiv  York  World. 


A 


N  UTTER   FAILURE.     By  Miriam  Coles  Harris,  au- 
thor of "  Rutledge."     l2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Rutledge  "  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  popular  works  of  fiction  ever  published 
in  this  country.  The  author's  host  of  friends  will  appreciate  her  skillful  rendering  of 
this  new  and  deeply  interesting  story. 


o 


NE  REASON    WHY.     By  Beatrice  Whitby,  author  of 

"The    Awakening    of  Mary    Fenwick,"    "Part   of  the    Property,"   etc. 

i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"A  remarkably  well-written  story,  skillfully  and  effectively  told.  .  .  .  The  char- 
acters are  sharply  and  cleverly  outlined,  and  the  author  makes  her  people  speak  the 
language  of  every  day  life,  and  a  vigorous  and  attractive  realism  pervades  the  book, 
which  provides  e.xcellent  entertainment  from  beginning  to  end." — Boston  Saturday 
Evening  Gazette. 


r 


HE  THREE  MISS  KINGS.     By  Ada  Cambridge,  au- 
thor of  "  My  Guardian."      i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  75  cents. 

"May  unreservedly  be  recommended  as  one  of  the  choice  stories  of  the  season, 
bright,  refined,  graceful,  thoughtful,  and  interesting  from  the  fiist  to  the  final  page." 
— Boston  Literary  World. 

ONE  WOMAN'S    WA  Y.     By  Edmund  Pendleton,  author 
of  "A  Conventional  Bohemian,"  "A  Virginia  Inheritance,"  etc.     i2mo. 
Paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 
"The  author  is  a  Virginian  who  has  written  seme  interesting  stories,  and  who 
steadily  improves  upon  himself.    .  .   .  This  is  a  thoughtful,  semi-philosophical  story. 
There  is  much  discussion  in  it,  but  none  of  it  is  prcsy." — Aew  York  Hetald. 

"  In  this  genuinely  interesting  novel  the  author  depicts  one  of  the  most  charming 
characters  to  be  found  in  the  vast  range  of  woman's  realm.  .  .  .  The  clrse  is  artistic- 
ally devised,  and  shows  a  deep  observation.  Mr.  Pendleton  has  a  brilliant  future 
before  him  in  his  chosen  path." — St.  Louis  Republic. 

New  York:    D.  APPLETON   &   CO.,  i,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street. 


D.  APPLETON    &    CCX'S   PUBLICATIONS. 


A   NEW    HUMOROUS   TRAVEL-BOOK. 

'Jf'O   GIRLS  ON  A   BARGE.     By 
V.  Cfxil  Cotes.     Illustrated  by  F.  H. 
'itl'V'fii^r'*^^-^  TOWNSEND.      i2mo.      Cloth,  $i.oo. 

*'jBiV.  «r^7^^^^-^         A  bright,  vivacious  sketch  of  odd  people  and  curious 
.i^V/^ ''^Bt-T^^^^^^x    experiences,  illustrated  by  the  artist  who  ilhistrated  "  A 
-^  Social  Departure  "  and  "  An  American  Girl  in  London," 
both  of  which  will  be  recalled  by  the  good  spirits  of  this 
equally  unconventional  record  of  a  journey  down  the  Thames. 

"  For  something  entirely  original,  piquant,  and  worthy  of  rapt  attention,  we  com- 
mend this  little  volume."— AVtc  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 

"  Describes  with  great  vivacity  a  vacation  trip  on  an  English  canal;  and  the  ex- 
periences of  the  two  young  ladies  and  a  young  gentleman  are  set  forth  with  a  thorough 
appreciation  of  the  novel  situations  in  which  the  party  often  found  itself.  The  forty - 
four  illustrations  are  fully  in  harmony  with  the  light  and  entertaining  character  of  the 
text.'' — Boston  Saturday  Hi'ening  Gazette. 


H 


AN    ENGLISH    WOMAN'S    RPXORD   OF    HER    LIFE 
IN    AFRICA. 

OME  LIFE  ON  AN  OSTRICH  FARM.     By  Annie 

Martin.     Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  Not  in  many  days  has  a  more  interesting  volume  descriptive  of  life  in  a  remote 
land  been  offered  to  the  public.  It  is  so  brightly  written,  so  cheery,  so  per\aded  by 
the  South  African  sunlight,  as  it  were,  that  the  reader  regrets  the  rapidity  with  which 
he  finds  himself  making  his  way  through  its  charming  pages."— Artf  Yurk  Times. 

"The  first  chatty  book  about  permanent  existence  in  South  Africa.  .  .  .  The 
illustrations  are  all  from  photographs  of  native  animals  and  birds,  principally  the 
ostrich,  in  various  stages  of  his  homely  existence.  The  style  of  the  book  is  natural, 
unaffected,  cheerful,  and  frequently  approaches  the  humorous.  "—AVjh  York  Herald. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  descriptions  of  African  experience  that  have  come 
under  our  notice.  .  .  .  The  work  does  not  contain  a  dull  page.  It  is  a  sparkling  lit- 
tle book,  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  sjieak  too  highly." — London  At/ienuum. 

"  With  fluent  simplicity  and  feminine  animation  the  author  chats  delightfully  of 
the  quaint  daily  happenings  on  her  husband's  farm  of  twelve  thousand  acres  in  the 
Karroo  district  of  Cape  Colony.  .  .  .  The  reader  will  peruse  every  jsage  with  keen 
enjoyment,  and  will  feel  grateful  admiration  for  the  clever,  plucky,  womanly  woman 
who  calls  herself  '  Annie  .Martin.'  " — Xe^u  i'ork  Sun. 

"  The  author's  style  is  gossipy,  and  she  has  a  sense  of 
humor  that  aids  greatly  in  making  her  book  readable.  She 
seems  to  write  without  an  effort,  as  if  she  enjoyed  it ;  and 
before  we  have  gone  through  the  first  chapter  we  become 
warm  frientls,  so  that  when  the  final  chapter  arrives  we 
part  with  the  authoress  with  sincere  regret." — Philadel- 
phia Item. 

"  We  commend  the  volume  heartily  to  the  attention  of 
our  readers,  assuring  them  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  be 
charmed  and  interested  in  what  it  has  to  tell  and  what  it 
tells  so  admirably." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


OSTRICH    LIllCK. 


New  York:    D.   APPLETON    &   CO.,   i,  3.  &  5  Bond  Street 


iviie80239 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


iiltii 


•V  jr?-»»  vfc»>' 


'/^ 


